


Under the Cover of Darkness

by avioleta



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Cults, Death Eaters, First Time, Journalism, M/M, Masturbation, Slow Build, Snarry-A-Thon Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 15:12:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4142418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avioleta/pseuds/avioleta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is a graduate student studying criminal psychology; Snape is an investigative reporter with a questionable past.  Together, the go undercover to research the nefarious Scottish cult headed by Tom Riddle.  They discover far more than they bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Cover of Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Snarry-a-Thon 2015. 
> 
> Original Prompt: #007: “AU--Snape is an investigative journalist, the editor of the paper/magazine is Sirius. Harry has just started at university … and during the holidays Sirius wants Harry to work with Severus on his next story, investigating some sort of cult in Scotland where lots of deaths have occurred. What are they doing in a remote Scottish castle and what are they up to? Severus and Harry are undercover and, of course, they pretend to want to join the cult.”
> 
> The italicised sections interspersed throughout the story represent the combined efforts of Harry Potter and Severus Snape. The article was written over the course of eight weeks, from 14 June to 8 August 2004.
> 
> Content/Warning(s): Non-magical AU. Use of some canon with liberties. Mild violence, Death Eaters, cult activities, and minor character deaths. Masturbation. Implied voyeurism, first time, and a bit angst.
> 
> Thank you to the mods for their extensions, patience, support, and edits.

_On the night of 31 October 1981, James and Lily Potter were murdered in their home in the quiet village of Godric’s Hollow in Cornwall, England. Their infant son, Harry, was also left for dead. These murders marked the last in a decade-long reign of terror perpetrated by Tom Riddle and his cult of Death Eaters. Riddle was gravely injured that night and long presumed dead._

_Now we know he survived. The Dark Mark—a literal black mark in our country’s history and a symbol once synonymous with fear and death—was the stuff of legend and nightmare. In December 2003, however, it appeared again, and has since marked the sight of eight grisly and seemingly random murders. Its reappearance confirms what we all hoped could not be true—Tom Riddle and his Death Eaters have returned._

***

“Harry, are you out of your bloody mind? What you’re proposing…” Sirius runs a hand through his hair; it curls around his fingers. “Do you realise how dangerous that will be? I just can’t let you—”

Harry cuts him off there. “I wasn’t asking your permission, Dad, and frankly I don’t need it.”

“Harry…”

“No.” He holds up a hand. “I am twenty-two years old. I’m an adult, and I was merely doing you the courtesy of letting you know how I plan to spend my summer hols—how I’ll be completing my dissertation research.”

Sirius sits down heavily, his well-worn office chair groaning under his weight. After a long moment he says, “Yes, you’re an adult, of course, but does it have to be the bloody Death Eaters? Sure, they’re a sycophantic bunch of psychotic pansies—no doubt perfect test subjects for whatever you have in mind—but that doesn’t mean they’re not responsible for some sick shit.” Sirius’s voice is filled with all its usual bravado, but there’s an undercurrent of fear that Harry can’t ignore.

For a second he almost feels guilty. Almost. “If it makes you feel any better,” Harry says, “send one of your writers with me. That way you can at least get a story out of it.” He’d planned on suggesting that all along, but he held off, wanting it to sound like a compromise.

Sirius laughs, but it’s clearly forced. “Right. A _Phoenix Press_ Exclusive: Inside the Mind of a Mass Murdering Cult Member.”

Harry shrugs. “Cult members, plural, but yeah, pretty much.”

“And I can’t talk you out of it?”

“No.” Harry made up his mind months ago, really, when the Marks starting appearing at crime scenes and the first rumours began circulating that Tom Riddle had survived that night all those years ago. He rubs at his forehead without thinking then quickly pulls his hand away, but Sirius notices.

“Is that why you’re doing this, Harry?” his father asks, expression softening. “You don’t have to be afraid. No one knows you survived. We made sure of that.”

Harry sits down across from Sirius’s desk. He slides his hand up and down the chair’s arm, tracing a whorl in the wood with a fingertip. “I’m not scared,” he says finally, but at Sirius’s look he adds, “not really. And I know this is worth doing. Not just because of my biological parents, but also for me.”

***

“Absolutely not, Black. I won’t do it.”

“I’m not asking you, Snape.”

The man’s glare is vicious. “Then I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that my contract protects me against unreasonable assignments. I am not required to agree to any story and, I assure you, I do not agree to this.”

Harry is sitting outside his father’s office. Sirius is talking to one of his senior writers, Severus Snape, and Harry is definitely _not_ listening in.

Sirius runs both hands through his hair. Harry can see how frustrated he is by the set of his shoulders, the stiff line of his spine. He takes a deep breath. “But I thought you wanted to get off your science beat. Do some investigative reporting that didn’t involve stolen trade secrets and lab rats.”

“This is not what I had in mind,” Snape practically spits. “And you know it.”

Sirius regains his composure. “Beggars can’t be choosers, now, can they?”

“Fuck you, Black.”

“No thank you. Besides,” Sirius’s grin is downright predatory, “surely you’ll feel right at home…”

“I’m sorry,” Snape cuts him off, “but I’m certain I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sirius rolls his eyes. “Of course not. And I’m sure you haven’t been itching to get back to your Death Eaters now that you know Riddle is still alive.”

Something flashes dangerously in Snape’s eyes, but Harry looks down again quickly. He’s got his earbuds in and he fiddles with his mobile, but he’s not listening to anything aside from the conversation unfolding in Sirius’s office.

“Watch it, Black,” Snape says, and his voice is like ice water. “For a moment there, it almost sounded like you were suggesting that one of your salaried employees—an employee you personally vetted and hired—was affiliated with a known criminal organisation.”

“No, no, of course not,” Sirius backpedals. “I just—”

“I will be paid overtime for the extent of the job.”

Sirius can’t hide his surprise. “Done,” he says quickly.

“And I want it in writing that I get priority on any follow-up stories or additional opportunities that may arise from our research.”

“Certainly.”

Harry glances up again to see Sirius extend a hand to Snape. The other man regards him for a moment before nodding. “ _Phoenix Press_ will cover all my travelling and lodging expenses, naturally.”

“Naturally.” The word comes like pulling teeth, but Sirius doesn’t flinch. Only then does Snape take his hand, shaking it.

***

 _The first reference to the cult known as the Death Eaters appeared in the_ Inverness Courier _on 23 October 1970. Though, technically, Tom Riddle organised his followers around him some years before while still in England at Eton College. Those who knew him—who are willing to say anything at all—are hesitant to use the word ‘cult’ when describing Riddle and his boyhood friends, if one could call them friends at all._

_Albus Dumbledore, former Chief Constable of Scotland’s Northern Constabulary, said, “They were a motley collection: a mixture of the weak seeking protection, the ambitious seeking some shared glory, and the thuggish gravitating toward a leader who could show them more refined forms of cruelty.”_

***

They’re on the Scotsrail train headed to Inverness. They departed from Kings Cross and, after more than seven hours, transferred trains at the Edinburgh Waverley station. They have one more stop before they reach their final destination in the Scottish Highlands.

Severus Snape is seated across from Harry; the salmon coloured paper of his _Financial Times_ rustles as he turns the page. Harry opens his laptop and pulls up his research notes. He’s bookmarked the police reports and news articles on the recent crimes linked to Tom Riddle and his Death Eaters, but he can’t concentrate. He glances over at Snape. The man is dressed casually in a long-sleeved white shirt and black slacks; his dark hair is pulled back with a tie at the nape of his neck.

He looks down at his computer again. Since Harry’s dad called them into his office to discuss their travel arrangements and the specifics of the undercover plan, Harry and Snape have barely spoken to one another.

His dad has known Severus Snape for years. They attended boarding school together at Eton, though Sirius is adamant they were never friends. “Snape kept to his books, mostly,” he said, when Harry asked him over dinner two nights before. “He never knew how to have fun. Not like your old man, here,” he added with a laugh and his trademark roguish smile.

Harry laughed too, but it felt half-hearted. He’d grown up on stories of his dad’s school-time jokes and escapades. They always sounded so legendary, and, as a boy, Harry had been in awe of his dad’s devil-may-care attitude. Eventually, though, he began to realise that he was more like the kids on the receiving end of those pranks than he was like Sirius himself.

Snape grew up poor in a Lancaster mill town. He went to Eton as a King’s Scholar—the reduced tuition offered to only the top dozen or so candidates being the only way he could have ever afforded it. After, he went on to Oxford and was awarded a fellowship for graduate studies in chemistry. At one point, he was considered one of the country’s most promising researchers. But then his mother died and something changed. He dropped out of the doctorate program, spent a year travelling abroad, then returned to London and applied for a writing job at Sirius’s paper.

“And the things you said to Snape…” Harry continued, “in your office—I didn’t mean to overhear,” he added quickly at his dad’s raised eyebrow.

“Right…” his father said, but he wasn’t angry.

“It sounded like you were accusing him of—”

But Sirius held up a hand, stopping him. “No, Harry, that’s just old school rivalries. Snape and I might not get along, but he’s one of the best writers I have, and I wouldn’t send him with you if I didn’t trust him. You know that, don’t you?”

“Mr. Black, is there something I can help you with?” Snape’s voice startles Harry out of his thoughts.

“What? Oh, no, I…” Harry hadn’t realised he’d been staring and he looks away quickly, feeling his cheeks heat. “I was thinking.”

“Apparently,” the man says, waiting for Harry to continue.

“It’s just, well, you weren’t a Death Eater, were you? Because…”

The look Snape gives him is nothing short of murderous, and, for a moment, Harry fears he’s made a grave mistake. After all, if Snape _is_ a Death Eater, he’s not likely to admit it and, while he’s probably not going to kill Harry on the train either, they’re going to be alone together quite a bit over the next several weeks. If the man wanted to kill him, he’d have plenty of opportunities to do so and dispose of his body.

But then Snape actually laughs, and Harry releases the breath he didn’t even know he was holding. “Well, I see you’ve inherited your dad’s sense of tact.”  
  
“I'm sorry,” Harry says. “That was—”

“Beyond inappropriate?” Snape finishes for him.

“Yes,” Harry says, ashamed.

“It would make for an interesting twist, though, wouldn’t you say?” Snape continues, and there’s something in his voice that Harry can’t read. “After all, _were_ I truly a Death Eater, it would make infiltrating their organisation all the easier. Though,” he adds, a calculating look in his eye, “you'd have to worry that I was planning to expose you. And I'm certain Lord Voldemort won’t take too kindly to being made a test subject in your little experiment.”  
  
His words are unsettling, but Harry doesn't reveal his discomfort. Instead he asks, “Why do you call him that?”

“Hmm?” Snape frowns.

“You-know-what, why do you use that name?”

“Voldemort?” Snape says baldly, as if he isn’t uttering one of the most feared words in England. “It's what he calls himself, isn't it?”

“Yes, but—” Harry's not sure why it bothers him so much.

“Mr. Black, names have no power unless we chose to give it to them.”

Snape’s right, of course. Everything Harry knows about linguistic psychology supports it, but it still feels sacrosanct, or, at the very least, taboo to give into Tom Riddle’s megalomania by using his self-declared title. “It just seems like you’re giving him what he wants.”

“Perhaps,” Snape admits. “Or perhaps you’re giving him what he wants by being afraid of a word.”

“I’m not scared of him,” Harry says, but he hears the lack of conviction in his voice.

“Then you are a fool,” Snape says, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Now, it’s time for you to answer a question for me.”

“Okay.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Harry blinks. He was sure his dad had explained everything. “For my masters thesis.”

Snape rolls his eyes. “Yes, I know. But you could have elected to examine autistic children in primary school or teenage drug addiction, but instead you’ve chosen to research the most dangerous cult in modern day history.”

“Yes,” Harry says because it’s true. “But my primary focus is on criminal psychology. Hence the decision to focus on criminals.” Harry doesn’t mention the personal motivation that drove him to select _these_ criminals. Very few people know that Harry was the baby who survived Tom Riddle’s attack that night in October 1981.

Harry’s biological parents, James and Lily Potter, were murdered when Tom Riddle broke into their home in Godric’s Hollow. Harry would have died too, had the bullet not missed and ricocheted off his cot, striking Riddle instead.

Investigators hoped the shot was fatal—there’d been so much blood—but Riddle’s body was never found, and they had to be cautious. The head police inspector agreed that it was best to conceal the full details of the crime, namely that Harry had survived, from the public. Sirius adopted his three-month-old godson in a private proceeding days later, and he had Harry’s name changed in secret. All records were sealed.

The following week, Sirius published an exclusive story in his paper detailing the unspeakable tragedy that took the lives of James and Lily Potter and their infant son.

As for the baby, colleagues and friends were led to believe that Harry was the product of one of Sirius’s many romantic entanglements—the child of some young European beauty who wasn’t ready for the responsibilities of parenthood. And, as Sirius loved to say, it was time he settled down and began living properly anyway. So Harry Potter was raised as Harry Black, and Sirius was, without a doubt, the best dad he could ask for.

Still, that doesn’t mean Harry hasn’t thought about what his life might be like had his biological parents not died when he was a baby. And, when news broke that the notorious cult leader was still alive, Harry couldn’t help but take an interest in the Death Eaters.

***

Hogsmeade Station is the last stop on the line, but Harry doesn’t think it can _actually_ be called a station. It’s just a dilapidated wooden platform with a rusted metal awning, a single bench, and a ticket kiosk off to one side. There is no one around when they get off the train; Harry slings his duffle over his shoulder and follows Snape as he heads towards town.

It’s a calm night, mild and clear. The moon casts pale shadows on the wet grass as they make their way along the dirt path, Harry hurrying to keep up with Snape’s longer strides. Harry has been to Scotland before, but never this far north. He’s glad he brought his jacket because there’s a chill to the air, even in June.

They’ve walked for over a kilometre when they reach a meandering row of cottages, each with a thatched roof and neatly maintained garden. Harry can see lights from the village up ahead. Hogsmeade is a small town consisting of one main street, two pubs, an inn, and several shops.

There’s a crowd at The Three Broomsticks; laughter and music spills out the open door as they pass by. “Can we stop?” Harry asks, eyeing the sign advertising meat pies and Cornish pasties. “I’m starved.”

“We’ll get something at The Hog’s Head,” Snape says. “It’s just down the road.” It’s the first words the man has spoken since they got off the train.

“Have you been here before—to Hogsmeade?” Harry clarifies, as if it’s not obvious what he’s referring to.

Snape only grunts in acknowledgment, but they’ve reached The Hog’s Head Inn and Harry follows the man inside. If possible, the interior looks even dodgier than the outside. The pub is only one small room with a dirty stone floor and a bar along one wall. The large windows lining the front are so encrusted with filth that Harry can hardly see through them to the street outside. The only light in the establishment comes from the single lamp behind the bar and the stubs of candles on the rough wooden tabletops. There’s a stairwell to one side leading—Harry presumes—to the inn’s rooms.

Two men sit in the corner playing cards, half-drunk pints on the table in front of them. Another man, face hidden by his jacket’s hood, is at the bar. Snape takes a seat at the opposite end and Harry sits beside him, setting his bag on an empty chair rather than the dirt-covered floor.

“Severus,” the bartender greets Snape by name, “Albus said you’d be in town.” The man is tall and thin, with a great deal of long, stringy grey hair and beard. His expression is as gruff as his bar.

“Yes,” Snape says, “for the next few weeks most likely.”

“And your…colleague?” There’s an implication in his voice that Harry doesn’t understand, but Snape seems to because he responds quickly.

“Aberforth, this is Harry Black. Surely Albus mentioned the research project we’re working on.” Snape glances at Harry. “Aberforth owns this fine establishment.”

“Right,” the bartender says. “Drink?”

“Whisky,” Snape says.

“You?” Aberforth looks at Harry.

“Er, cider, please.” The bartender wipes off a grimy glass with an even grimier rag before filling it from the tap.

“And two orders of fish and chips,” Snape adds. Aberforth nods and walks back to the kitchen.

They sit silently for a few minutes. Harry wonders why Snape knows the bartender here and why the man knows what they’ve come to the Highlands to do. When Aberforth returns with their food, Harry’s stomach growls at the smell of grease. The fish is hot and flaky. He pours vinegar over the chips before shoving a forkful in his mouth; it burns his tongue, but he’s so hungry he doesn’t care. “This is good,” Harry says, mouth full.

“Yes,” Snape agrees.

The man in the hoodie tosses a few pounds on the bar and stands to leave. Snape turns to watch him go and then looks back at the bartender. “So it’s true then? They’re back.”

“I’m afraid so, son,” Aberforth says, collecting the money and wiping down the counter.

Snape nods, face dark. “We knew as much, of course, when the Marks started appearing in London, but I’ll admit I was holding out hope it was a copycat.”

“You’re not alone in that. But there’ve been sightings now. Plenty of ‘em. And just a week after that poor Bones woman was killed, Malfoy was in here running his mouth.” Something flashes across Snape’s expression at that, but it’s gone before Harry can decipher it.

“Lucius? Here in Hogsmeade?”

Aberforth nods. “Tosser walks in like he owns the place and proceeds to make a scene about the alleged shortcomings of my Scotch selection.” The man glares. “My Scotch is just fine, of course.”

“Naturally,” Snape says, taking a sip of his own drink. Ice clinks against the sides of the glass when he sets it down again. “Did Lucius say what he was doing here?”

“Business.” Aberforth grunts. “As if the man conducts any business outside the comfort of his fancy London offices. No, it’s clear what he’s really doing. Riddle’s called all his lackeys home for a gathering.”

“Who else is here?” Snape asks, pushing his plate away. Aberforth takes it, dumping it in a bin by the sink.

“Rosie said she ran Goyle and Crabbe juniors out of The Broomsticks just two days ago. So you know their fathers are around somewhere.”

“Most likely,” Snape agrees. “And Albus? I know he’s paying attention.”

“More so than he should,” Aberforth replies, “for a man who claims he’s retired.”

Snape finishes his drink, and the bartender refills it without waiting for Snape to ask for another one. “The Lestranges are in town. So are Avery and Nott. All hanging around that bloody castle.”

Snape nods, twisting his glass between his hands. “And Voldemort? Has anyone seen him?”

Harry glances up at Aberforth when Snape says the name, but the man doesn’t even flinch.

“Local kid, bout your age,” Aberforth says, looking at Harry. “Came into town raving one night two weeks ago. Said he was out in the forest—doing God knows what—and stumbled across a bunch of men dressed in cloaks and masks gathered round a fire.”

“Death Eaters,” Snape says.

“Yeah.”

Harry picks up his pint glass, but his hand is shaking; some of the liquid sloshes over the brim and down the side. He’s seen pictures of the hooded and masked cult members, and he recognises most of the names Snape and Aberforth have mentioned. But, for the first time, the reality of what they’re here to do hits home. It settles in the pit of his stomach like lead.

“And Voldemort was there?” Snape continues.

“The kid swears he was. Not sure if you know him—Cedric Diggory, Amos’s boy.”

Snape shakes his head.

“Anyway, the kid tears into town, half out of his mind, screaming that he watched Riddle cut a man’s arm off with a machete.”

Harry gasps, worried he’s about to sick up his fish and chips.

Aberforth looks at him. “That’s the kind of psycho we’re dealing with, here. You remember that.”

“And you believe him?” Snape asks, ignoring Harry entirely.

“Didn’t at first. The kid was on the verge of a mental break. And of course the police went straight away into the forest, but they didn’t find anything. The Death Eaters had cleared out by then. But the next day they brought the dogs out. Led ‘em straight to a clearing several kilometres in, where they found a considerable amount of blood soaked into the ground.”

Snape taps his fingers on the bar. “Consistent with a severed limb?”

“Evidently. No body turned up though,” Aberforth says. “And I can’t see how you’d survive something like that. They checked the hospitals, too. From Inverness clear to Aberdeen. Nothing.”

Snape is quiet, and Harry speaks up for the first time. “What about the kid—Cedric? Is he all right?” Harry’s studied the psychological effects of trauma, and he can only imagine what witnessing something like that would do to someone.

Aberforth shrugs. “He’s alive.”

“Damn lucky he is, too,” Snape says. “Had they seen him, he wouldn’t be.”

The barman nods in agreement and points to Harry’s now-empty glass, but Harry shakes his head. One of the men playing cards in the corner signals to Aberforth, and the man pours two beers from the tap. When he returns from delivering the drinks, he leans close to Snape. “So, you think it’s wise, what you’re planning to do? Because I think it’s bloody insane.”

Harry freezes. It’s one thing for Snape to know the barman well enough for the man to have anticipated their arrival in Hogsmeade. But it’s quite another for Aberforth to know about their plans—to know that they’re going to infiltrate the Death Eaters’ cult. If they’re found out… Harry doesn’t have to finish the thought; he knows that Riddle has killed people over far less.

But Snape actually laughs. “I agree with you there. But there’s a story here, too. And maybe even the chance to finally expose the bastards.”

“Aren’t they already exposed?” Harry asks. “I mean, we know what they’re responsible for. At least five murders last winter, and now another two this past month alone.”

“People know, all right,” Aberforth says, “but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“Think about it,” Snape says, turning to look at him. “Voldemort has been killing people for nearly half a century. He’s been arrested twice, but he’s never even come close to being convicted.”

“They can’t catch him,” Harry says. Riddle surrounds himself with followers who would die to protect him, and no witnesses have ever been willing to testify against him. Harry takes a deep breath. If he’s honest, it’s part of the fascination for him. He wants to know what is it about cult members that makes them so willing to give their lives for their leader, that makes them so willing to conceal evidence and to take part in horrific things. He picks up his glass but, of course, it’s empty.

“They can’t catch him _yet_ ,” Snape says, draining the rest of his whisky.

***

Their room is surprisingly nice. Harry, after seeing the condition of the pub at The Hog’s Head, was admittedly worried. There are two double beds, a desk with a straight-back chair, a bureau, and a telly. The bathroom is small but clean, and Harry can’t help but wonder why Aberforth doesn’t employ the same housekeepers he clearly has cleaning the inn’s rooms to clean his bar. Then again, he suspects that maybe the clientele prefers it that way.

Snape emerges from the bathroom, wearing dark, flannel sleep pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt.

“What were you thinking?” Harry asks, unable to keep quiet any longer.

“I’m sorry?” Snape folds his slacks and puts them in the top drawer of the bureau.

“Aberforth!” Harry practically yells. “He knows everything!” Harry waves his arms about emphatically. “I thought the entire point of going undercover was that no one would know anything.”

Snape doesn’t respond. He walks over to the bed by the window and turns the coverlet back. The sheets are clean and white.

“Aberforth knows,” Harry repeats. “Hell, now half the town will probably know by morning.”

Snape regards him steadily; his face is carefully blank. “You have no idea what we’re up against, do you?” he finally says.

“What?”

“What we’re about to do.”

“Of course I know. It’s my fucking research.”

“Then you surely realise how incredibly dangerous these people are. And—if we’re going to be successful and not get ourselves killed in the process—we will need allies.”

“But the local bartender?” Harry glares. “Really, Snape?”

Snape climbs into bed. “We can trust Aberforth Dumbledore.”

Harry frowns. He’s heard that name before. “Dumbledore?”

“Yes.” Snape rolls over, facing the wall.

“But that’s the name of the old Chief Constable. The one who headed the original Death Eater investigations.”

“That would be Albus,” Snape says, “Aberforth’s older brother. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get some sleep.”

***

_Critics of Albus Dumbledore call him mad. His supporters maintain that he is a genius. It’s no secret that Dumbledore, surely the most famous Chief Constable in Scotland’s history, was obsessed with Tom Riddle. Benevolent and kind, Dumbledore was also a skilled fighter and fierce investigator, and it is rumoured that he is the only man the Death Eaters’ notorious leader ever feared. Still, despite his efforts, Albus Dumbledore never succeeded in bringing Riddle to justice._

***

Albus Dumbledore lives just outside of town. The house is set back from the road and shielded from view by a tall row of hedges. Harry follows Snape up the narrow stone path and through the gate into the front garden. It’s overrun with flowering shrubs and plants. Harry has to wonder how half of it hasn’t been uprooted by wind in this northern corner of Scotland.

There are rosebushes with yellow and white blooms and beds of red dahlias. There are daisies and sunflowers and violets in patches of deep purples and muted blues. A half-dozen hanging baskets line the porch, each overflowing with bougainvillea that spill down the sides in cascades of pink and green. A man in a wide-brimmed sunhat is kneeling beside an exotic looking plant with orange flowers. He looks up and smiles as Snape and Harry approach. “Severus, my boy,” he says, standing.

Aside from his attire, Albus Dumbledore looks very much like his brother. He’s wearing a garishly coloured magenta housecoat that’s dotted with gold stars. But his hair is long and white; his thick beard is tied with a bit of twine. “You must be Harry.” The man looks at him. Behind his spectacles, his eyes are a brilliant blue. “Come. Let’s go inside.”

Dumbledore’s sitting room opens onto a brightly lit kitchen. The countertops are lined with black and white tiles, and the windows are hung with cheerful yellow curtains. Dumbledore busies himself making tea while Snape stands in the corner looking miserable. Harry thinks that’s a bit odd, since Snape was the one who insisted they come here in the first place. Though, come to think of it, Snape always looks rather miserable, so Harry supposes this isn’t anything new.

“Harry,” Dumbledore says, pulling three mismatched teacups from the cupboard, “Snape tells me you’re studying criminal psychology.”

“Yes. I’m in a graduate programme in London.”

“I see,” Dumbledore says, handing him a cup of tea and motioning for him to sit at the small kitchen table. He doesn’t offer Snape a seat, but Harry’s certain he wouldn’t take it, anyway. “And what do you intend to do? Do you want to be a police officer?”

“No,” Harry says, taking a sip of tea. It’s hot and bitter against his tongue. “But Scotland Yard employs psychologists as experts and profilers. I’m still interested in the law.”

“Of course,” the man says with a smile. “You are, after all, your father’s son.”

Harry frowns, setting his cup down again. It rattles against the saucer. “My father…you know Sirius?”

Dumbledore folds his hands across his stomach, tilting his head to the side before saying, “Sirius? Yes, I am acquainted with Mr. Black. But I was referring to your biological father, James Potter.”

It feels as though ice water’s been spilled down Harry’s spine. “Pardon?” Harry is distinctly aware of Snape standing in the corner, clutching his teacup in both hands, and staring at him.

“Your biological parents. James and Lily Potter.” Dumbledore’s expression is unsettlingly benign. It’s as though he’s discussing the weather or offering gardening tips, not exposing a secret that Harry’s protected for over twenty years. “Harry,” Dumbledore says, placing an unwanted hand on his shoulder, “I was Chief Constable in the Highlands from 1956 to 1984. That made me the lead investigator in the Death Eater and Tom Riddle killings. I worked closely with Scotland Yard, and I was there after your parents were murdered.” His voice is soft and his eyes are so damn sympathetic; it’s enough to make Harry ill. “It was on my recommendation that Kingsley Shacklebolt agreed to conceal the details of that night. We both knew it was best if everyone—Riddle included—believed you to be dead.”

Harry downs the rest of his tea in one gulp, but it does nothing to settle his stomach. It makes sense, of course, that Dumbledore would know. All of his research confirms the man’s role in the investigations following his parents’ deaths, but that knowledge doesn’t make Harry feel any better. Not to mention the fact that Severus Snape—a man his dad practically accused of being a Death Eater—is standing right there, fingers clenching his teacup so hard they’re bone white.

“I should have known,” Snape says then, startling Harry. “Your eyes…” His voice is strangely haunted. “You have your mother’s eyes.” The statement unnerves Harry. It’s the last thing he expected Snape to say.

“And you have that rather magnificent scar,” Dumbledore adds. Harry touches his forehead self-consciously. The night his parents died, the bullet meant for Harry ricocheted off a rung of his cot, hitting Riddle instead. There were splintered fragments that cut Harry’s skin deep enough to leave a permanent scar. Harry pushes his fringe down and looks at Snape.

“You knew my mother?” Harry asks; his voice only shakes a little.

“I did.” Snape sets his cup down and there’s a tremor in his hand that he cannot mask. “We grew up together in Lancashire. I knew Lily very well.”

“Then you must know how important it is that my identity remain a secret.” Harry’s voice is too high, too shrill, but he can’t believe this is happening. His dad may trust Snape, but he certainly didn’t anticipate him knowing his true identity, that he is really Harry Potter. And of course, they’ll have no chance of infiltrating the Death Eaters if his birth name is known. Far more likely, they’ll be killed. After all, Harry’s the only known person to ever survive a Tom Riddle attack, and he knows the cult leader blames him for the injury that nearly killed him. It’s absurd, of course, to blame a baby because a bullet bounced off a cot, but Riddle’s never been known for his rationality.

“I thought the entire point, _Mr. Black,_ ” Snape says, emphasising the words, “was to conceal our motives. That would be rather difficult to do should Voldemort learn of your…affiliation with the Potters.”

Dumbledore laughs. “He’s right, my boy. But then again, Severus usually is.”

***

_Historical records date Hogwarts Castle from as early as 993 CE. Located in the Scottish Highlands near the small village of Hogsmeade and not far from Banffshire and Lochaber, the castle was constructed in the early Middle Ages as a private, fortified residence. Hogwarts fell into disrepair sometime after the Bishop Wars and was abandoned in 1645._

_At first glance, the once majestic castle looks like massive ruins, but much of the building’s internal structure was restored once London millionaire Abraxas Malfoy purchased the castle in 1952._

_Hogwarts has been linked to Tom Riddle and his Death Eaters since the 1970s, and the castle is now widely considered to be the cult’s safe haven and suspected residence of Riddle himself. All efforts to search Hogwarts or its extensive grounds, however, have proven fruitless._

***

The following afternoon, Harry and Snape set off from the village towards Hogwarts. The sky is a slate gray, and the air is damp and chilly. Harry shoves his hands in his pockets and quickens his pace. “The location makes sense,” he says, breaking the silence. “Cult leaders like to isolate their members. I understand why Riddle would gravitate towards such a remote place.”

Snape nods. “Yes, I’d say Hogwarts Castle is the very definition of remote.”

“Still,” Harry continues, “Why here? Why _this_ castle?”

“Aside from Eton,” Snape responds, “Voldemort never cared for England. He associated it with his poor upbringing and the orphanage he grew up in. He clearly preferred the distance and seclusion the Highlands offers.”

“And the Malfoy family purchased the property and financed the extensive restorations.”

“Yes,” Snape says, “I’m certain Abraxas took great pleasure in offering such a…generous gift to his Lord.” The words drip with derision, but there’s an undercurrent of something there that Harry can’t decipher. “Not to mention the fact that _this_ castle is believed to be a stronghold of ancient magic.”

At first, Harry is certain Snape is joking, but the man’s tone reveals no amusement.

“Magic?” Harry asks in disbelief.

“Yes.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Not at all.” Snape’s not looking at him; he’s watching the path ahead, so Harry cannot gauge his expression. Still, he sounds completely serious. Harry laughs because he’s not sure what else to say.

“Think about it,” Snape says. “The ancient Celts saw magic everywhere—in rivers and trees, stones and lochs, fire, thunder, and rain. Is it really so unbelievable that some of that magic remained? Especially in a place like this, where nature has been left relatively untouched by civilisation?”

“Er, I suppose so?” Harry says slowly, “If you believe in magic in the first place, that is.”

“Of course,” Snape replies, his tone infuriatingly hard to read. “Though, of course, Albus would say that simply because you don’t believe in something doesn’t make it any less real.”

“How do you know Dumbledore, anyway?” Harry asks, using the man’s bizarre comment as a segue into something he’s been wanting to ask since they left the man’s cottage the day before.

“I’ve known Albus for a long time. Longer, perhaps,” he adds with a small smile, “than either of us would prefer.”

“What does that even mean?” Harry huffs, scuffing the toe of his trainer against the path. Snape is maddeningly cryptic.

But the man doesn’t have the chance to answer—if he would have offered any response at all. They’ve reached the peak of the gently sloping rise they’ve been ascending for the past fifteen minutes or so, and, for the first time, the castle comes into view.

Harry stops, eyes wide. He’s seen pictures, of course, but they hardly compare to the sight before him. “Wow.”

“Indeed.” Snape continues on towards the castle and Harry hurries to catch back up.

The castle is at least seven stories tall with three prominent towers stretching up to the cloud-covered sky. It stands in a valley surrounded by mountains. There is a large lake to the south and a deep forest extending around to the west.

“Perhaps he’s compensating for something,” Harry says.

Snape actually laughs, a surprising bark of sound. “You could say that, and Voldemort certainly has a flair for the overly dramatic.”

Harry knows this. A psychological profile of cult leaders from Jim Jones to Joseph Di Mambro, David Koresh to Tom Riddle unanimously reveals a predisposition towards megalomaniacal tendencies.

They reach the ancient looking, wrought iron gate surrounding the grounds. There’s a small, bronze plaque affixed to the bars. On a closer inspection, Harry sees the engraved images of a lion, a snake, an eagle, and what looks to be a badger, encircling an ornately carved “H.” _Hogwarts_ is scrolled under the image.

Harry reaches for the gate’s latch. His stomach is in knots. He’s both terrified and strangely thrilled to finally come face to face with Tom Riddle and his Death Eaters. But Snape catches his hand, his fingers cool against Harry’s skin.

“What are you doing?” The man’s voice is sharp.

“What do you think I’m doing?” Harry snaps. “I’m going to join a bloody cult.”

Snape rolls his eyes so hard Harry thinks it must hurt. “Not now you’re not.”

“Why the hell not?” Harry’s tired and he doesn’t understand why they came all this way if Snape is just going to sabotage his efforts.

“Because you don’t enter Hogwarts without an invitation, or…” Snape pauses, looking at Harry, “a death wish.”

“So what do you suggest?” Harry says, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice.

“I suggest we go to Wiltshire.”

***

Harry follows Snape up the wide gravel driveway that leads to Malfoy Manor. The high hedge curves with them, running off into the distance for at least fifty metres before reaching a tall iron gate. The house sits back from the gate another twenty-five metres or so, with white stone walls, wide windows lining the front, and a slate-coloured roof stretching up to the sky.

Snape opens the gate, pausing to let Harry through before closing it behind them. There are extensive gardens surrounding the house and an elaborately carved fountain off to one side. Lights glint in the diamond-paned windows downstairs as they walk up the path leading to the front door.

There is a rustle behind them, and Harry turns. “What the—” He jumps, startled, as a pure-white peacock appears along the top of the hedge.

“Albino peacocks,” Snape says. “Lucius always did have a flair for the outlandish.”

Harry laughs. “Where does one even go about purchasing an albino peacock in Britain?”

“You’d be surprised the myriad exotic…pets you can find if you know the right people,” Snape says.

“And pay the right price,” Harry adds.

“Naturally.”

They reach the massive front doors and Snape lifts a hand to the brass knocker. The sound echoes inside and, a few moments later, the door opens. A young woman greets them. She’s dressed in a servant’s uniform. Her white pinafore is starched and pressed, and her dark hair is tucked into her hat. A curl escapes; she tucks it back behind her ear. “May I help you?”

“Yes,” Snape says. “We’re here to see Mr. Malfoy.”

“And who might I say is calling?”

Snape smiles, an awkward twist of thin lips. “An old friend.”

She leads them through a spacious entry hall. The room is large, dimly lit, and lavishly decorated. The black and white marble floor is polished to a sheen. There’s a formal sitting room through a door to the right and a wide staircase stretches up to the second floor.

She leads them down a long hallway lit with sconces. The door at the end is closed, and the girl knocks softly before they are told to enter.

Lucius Malfoy looks every bit as self-important and smug in person as he has the times Harry has seen his photo gracing the society pages or the front of _The London Business Journal._

The Malfoys come from old money. Abraxas purchased _The Times_ in 1948, and Lucius had no qualms about taking over when his father retired. Nepotism aside, Lucius made a name for himself by virtue of his undoubtedly shrewd business practices and his ability to keep the paper afloat, not only during the recessions of the 1980s and 1990s, but also through the recent push towards paperless news sources.

Sirius admitted to Harry on more than one occasion that he thought about giving up on _Phoenix_. And, had it not been for the considerable Black fortune to fall back on, he probably would have. Harry supposes it’s the same for Malfoy, and the man’s run _The Times_ with an iron fist for years. Still, the silver of his hair is streaked with gray and his eyes, his mouth, are lined. Things haven’t been easy.

“Severus,” Lucius says standing, “how delightful to see you.” Lucius doesn’t sound at all delighted, but judging from the expression on Snape’s face, the feeling is mutual.

But Snape nods pleasantly in response. “I trust Narcissa and Draco are well?”

At that, Lucius actually smiles. “Narcissa is in France currently. I’m sure you’ve heard, Draco and Astoria just had their first child.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” Snape says. “I recall reading of young Scorpius’s arrival.”

Harry thinks Scorpius is a ridiculous name for a human, but he chooses not to comment.

“Narcissa will stay in Paris for the summer,” Lucius continues. “Help them get settled with the baby.”

“How thoughtful of her.”

“Yes. Now, to what do I owe the…pleasure of this visit?” Lucius leans back against the mantel, arms folded across his chest.

“We’re here with a small request,” Snape says.

“I see.” Lucius’s lip curls. “But you haven’t even introduced me to your companion.”

Harry feels distinctly uncomfortable. Lucius Malfoy is a powerful and dangerous man. It’s common knowledge that he’s associated with Riddle’s Death Eaters but, of course, no one can do anything about it.

“My apologies,” Snape says. “This is Harry Black. Surely you remember Sirius.”

Lucius raises one manicured eyebrow. “How could I forget my dear cousin?”

Harry doesn’t respond. Technically it’s true. Sirius and Lucius’s wife are second cousins, once removed, or something like that. But it’s not like they’ve ever had the Malfoys over for family dinner.

Lucius tilts his head to the side, regarding Harry for a moment. “And how did you meet Severus?”

“I’m studying photography at university.” The practiced lie rolls off Harry’s tongue easily. “I’m hoping my dad hires me some day, so I’ve been hanging around at his office.” He glances over to Snape. He’s is not looking at him; he’s staring out the window. “I met Severus there.”

“I’ll bet you did.” Harry doesn’t like the mocking lilt to Lucius’s voice, but he doesn’t want to risk saying anything else. “And, Severus,” Lucius adds, lips twisting cruelly, “I see your tastes haven’t changed at all.”

Harry doesn’t understand the comment, but the man’s tone is so derisive that it sets his teeth on edge. He glances to Snape, but his face is impassive. Harry fidgets uncomfortably, smoothing his hand along the back of an armchair. It was clearly expensive, but the brocade is worn and faded now.

“So,” Lucius continues after a moment when it’s clear Snape isn’t going to respond, “what would this request be?”

“An invitation,” Snape says, “to Hogwarts Castle.”

***

“How well do you know Lucius?”

They're walking back from Hogsmeade Station. They hadn't really spoken on the train from Wiltshire. Harry passed the time updating his notes on Lucius Malfoy. His assessment hasn't changed much after meeting the man in person and, in all honesty, he takes a bit a professional pride in knowing how accurate his initial conclusions were.  
He understands why Lucius is drawn to Tom Riddle and the Death Eaters, but he also understands why Lucius would have denied all involvement and pleaded ignorance the moment Riddle disappeared in 1981.

On the surface, Lucius Malfoy doesn't seem to fit the profile of a cult member. He's wealthy, connected, and he likes to be in control.

But Harry sees that the desire for control only goes so far; it is outweighed by Lucius's need for power, and Tom Riddle promises that, even if his Death Eaters must always remain in his shadow.

And Riddle would find Lucius, like so many of his well-connected followers, very useful. After all, Lucius is incredibly influential, and Riddle would recognise the value of his position and his money.

“We were in the same house at Eton,” Snape says, not looking at Harry. “Though, he was several years older. He was my prefect. Later, we renewed our acquaintance at Oxford.”

Harry nods. From what he knows of Lucius’s prejudices and belief in the superiority of old, aristocratic English families, he can’t imagine that he would have pursued a friendship with Severus Snape. But then again, Snape was a King’s scholar—as was Tom Riddle, a similarity Harry refuses to think too much about. Harry knows that Lucius might well have been drawn to Snape’s intelligence and promise. “And what did he mean when he said your tastes hadn’t changed?”

Snape laughs. “I assume he was referring to Regulus.”

“Regulus?” Harry adjusts the strap on his messenger bag, his laptop bumping against his thigh. “My dad’s brother?” He never met his uncle; Regulus died before Harry was born.

“That’s the one.”

“How did you know him?”

Snape stops walking expressly to glare at Harry. “Regulus Black, like your idiot father, like Lucius Malfoy and James Potter and every other spoiled brat in England, attended Eton. I,” he says, turning his attention back to the path in front of him, “despite being neither spoiled nor rich, also attended Eton. And, as you no doubt know, it’s a small community.” Snape pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and holds one to his lips, lighting it. “One can’t help but know everyone else. It’s rather tiresome, really.”

Harry frowns; he didn’t know the man smoked. “How well did you know my uncle?” Eton connections aside, Snape has yet to explain Lucius’s strange comment.

Instead of answering, however, Snape responds with a question of his own. “What has your father told you about Regulus?”

Harry chews on his lip. The short answer is not much. Sirius never talks about his younger brother. Harry always assumed it was too painful. He drags his toe along the ground. “He was two years younger than my dad. He died in 1979, in a motorcycle accident. He was only eighteen.” When Harry looks over to Snape again, the man’s eyes are dark and sad, and he realises that the man must have cared for Regulus.

“Is that what he told you?” Snape takes another drag off his cigarette. Smoke coils into the air between them.

“I…of course,” Harry says, unsettled by the question. “What else would he have said?”

Snape opens his mouth as though to say something, but closes it again. They’ve reached the main street of the village, and Snape stubs the cigarette out on the heel of his boot before opening the door to The Hog’s Head. Harry follows him inside.

Aberforth is already pouring Snape’s whisky. “Cider?” he asks, and Harry nods. “Did you two idiots have fun in Wiltshire?” The barman sets their drinks down. Harry takes a long swig; he hadn’t realised how thirsty he was. The cider is dry and crisp. “Meet some nice people there? Perhaps get in some sightseeing?”

Harry isn’t sure how to respond to Aberforth’s sarcasm, but Snape says simply, “We accomplished our objective.” He drains his whisky in a single gulp. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like another drink.”

***

“Lucius Malfoy is the reason so many people refuse to believe that Riddle is back.”

“Of course he is.” Snape doesn’t even look up from the book he’s reading.

“And yet you trust him?”

“If you believe that, then you must be even more of an idiot than I originally thought.”

“But you are friends.”

“We are acquaintances.” Snape sets his book down. “There’s a difference, but I learned early on at Eton that Lucius was a man best kept on one’s good side.”

Harry nods. Still, he spent all of fifteen minutes with Lucius Malfoy, and he’d made Harry’s skin crawl. He knows he would have a hard time even being civil to him for an extended period of time, much less maintain the guise of friendship. But Snape is calculating and resourceful. He is neither impulsive nor swayed by his emotions as Harry so often is. If something is in his best interest, he will work for it, regardless of cost or unpleasantness. Honestly, it’s impressive. Though, a lot of things about Snape are.

Harry knows his dad can’t stand Snape personally, but he’s one of his best writers, and Sirius respects him professionally. Harry, on the other hand and despite all preconceived notions, actually likes Snape very much. And he’s not entirely certain how to feel about that.

“We cannot trust Lucius,” Snape says, “but then again, we can’t trust anyone.”

“No,” Harry agrees.

The man leans across to the bedside cabinet and picks up his yellow legal pad and a pen. “Tell me your plan for our visit to Hogwarts.”

Harry takes a deep breath. He’s thought about it extensively, but it still makes him feel sick to his stomach. “Profiling, mostly. Researchers have profiled cult members before, but never as we’ll do. Never from an insider’s perspective, and never from inside the cult itself.”

Snape nods. “Right.”

“I’m interested in motivations and expectations, and, of course, to examine their behaviour patterns in Riddle’s presence.” Harry leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I want to see what similarities exist between cult members, what they want, why they joined, and why they came back once Riddle returned.”

Snape makes a note on his pad. “You will talk to as many Death Eaters as you can without appearing too forward. Clearly it’s prudent for us to spend as little time as possible with Voldemort and his cult members. We must gather information quickly.”

***

_Status is central to Tom Riddle’s belief system, and his Death Eaters were founded on his prejudices, as well as his conviction in his own superiority and supremacy. Of course, this form of classicism and, at times, overt racism, is often delusional—Riddle’s own background a significant case in point._

_Still, much like the Nazi supremacism of the Second World War, it is clear that Tom Riddle relies on a romanticised vision of his own family’s history. At the very least, he conveniently ignores such realities as his time spent at Wool’s Orphanage in London. Arguably, Riddle’s less than privileged upbringing, more than anything, shaped the cult leader’s extremely bigoted views as he set about to distinguish himself from those of his past that he considered far beneath him._

***

Harry can’t sleep. His mind is racing and he’s more anxious than he’s ever been in his life. He feels the way he always does the night before a big exam. Only this isn’t an exam. Exams he can handle. This, he’s not so sure.

There's fear too. He’d be a fool not to be scared. But there's also a perverse sense of excitement coursing through his veins, and he knows a small part of him is actually excited to meet Tom Riddle face to face. Harry rolls over, readjusting his pillow. He can’t get comfortable. He flips over again, looking at Snape. The man is asleep, facing the wall. Harry can see the dark outline of his body under the covers. He flops on his back and stares at the ceiling, trying to calm the thoughts swirling in his head.

Slowly, he reaches his hand down under the blanket and into his pyjama pants. He hasn’t jerked off in days. It hasn’t seemed appropriate with Snape sleeping not two metres away. But now the man is asleep, and Harry knows it will help him relax.

He’s already half hard, and he tugs at his foreskin lazily before curling his fingers around his prick. He doesn’t think of anything, save for the feeling of his hand sliding up and down against his shaft.

Harry tightens his grip, twisting his wrist, and thrusting up into his palm. It doesn’t take long. His entire body is wire taut, and he holds his breath, hips jerking once before he’s coming. He gasps as spunk streaks through his fingers, splattering across his stomach. Harry lies there shaking for a few minutes and then rolls over, grabbing his t-shirt off the floor to wipe the come off his skin.

He hears a noise beside him—a sharp exhale, the rustle of sheets—and Harry stills, heart pounding. But Snape is still asleep; the man’s breathing is steady, and he does not move again. Harry curls onto his side and closes his eyes. Within minutes, he’s fast asleep too.

***

Hogwarts is incredible.

Harry knew the castle was large, but nothing could have prepared him for the sheer size of the place. A smartly dressed attendant with a tray of champagne greets them at the door. Harry glances to Snape and the man nods slightly before taking a flute. Harry follows his lead, glad his hand doesn’t shake as he picks up a glass. He resists the urge to down the entire thing in one gulp. It might calm his nerves, but getting drunk definitely would not be a good idea. Instead, Harry takes a small sip and follows Snape into the main hall.

If he didn’t know better, Harry thinks they could be attending a party. There are about two dozen people gathered; they are all milling about, making small talk. Servants float between the various groups with platters of hors d’oeuvres and crystal glasses filled with pale yellow wine. The walls are hung with ancient-looking tapestries, and a row of portraits lines the massive staircase that leads up to the storeys above.

Harry doesn’t have time to finish his inspections, though, because a hush falls over the room. He looks up to see Tom Riddle himself enter the hall. The man’s dressed eccentrically, in a flowing black robe, and his Death Eaters all bow, bending their heads as he glides past.

Harry’s heart is suddenly in his throat. His palms are sweaty, and he feels like he could be sick. He takes a small sip of champagne and tries to focus on swallowing, rather than the fact that the most dangerous man in the country is headed straight towards him.

“Breathe.” Snape speaks so low only Harry can hear him, and Harry does, forcing himself to take one steadying breath and then another. Snape shifts closer to Harry. The movement is so subtle it’s almost imperceptible, but he angles his body slightly towards Harry, and his closeness is comforting.

“Severus.” Riddle looks at Snape. While not kind, his expression is as close to welcoming as Harry imagines it gets. “Lucius told me that you were planning to join us, but I did not believe him until I saw you with my own eyes.” His voice is strangely sibilant; the words sound nearly like a hiss.

“Yes, my Lord,” Snape says with a bow. “We are honoured to be in your presence this evening.”

“Of course you are,” Riddle replies, eyes falling on Harry. The man isn’t much taller than Harry is, and he’s an inch or so shorter than Snape, but he’s more intimidating than Harry imagined. He has to fight the urge to take a step back. Instead, he smiles and tries to look as though he’s pleased to be here.

“I’d like to present Harry Black,” Snape says formally, and it’s Harry’s turn to bow.

“Yes, yes,” Riddle says, esses sliding off his tongue smoothly. “Stand up straight, my boy, and let me get a look at you.”

Harry raises his head and does his best not to flinch under Riddle’s scrutiny.

The cult leader was surely handsome once, and there’s an intensity to his persona that must draw people to him. But his skin is unnaturally pale, and it looks as though it’s been stretched too thin across his angular features. His eyes are far too black, too empty. “Harry Black,” the man says finally, and Harry’s name sounds loathsome on the man’s lips. “For a moment, I thought my Regulus had come back to me.”

Beside him, Snape stiffens slightly, but Harry doesn’t have time to interpret the odd comment because Riddle is asking him why he wants to join the Death Eaters. Harry repeats the answer he’s rehearsed over a hundred times with Snape. Though the words fall from his lips naturally now, they still sound repugnant to his ears. Riddle listens patiently, and Harry gets through the practised speech without faltering. When he finishes, the man actually smiles, an unsettling twist of his lips, and Harry knows he was convincing.

“Wonderful, Mr. Black,” Riddle says, “wonderful. Come now. It’s time for dinner.”

The dining room is larger than Harry’s entire flat back in London. There’s a raised dais at the head of the room with a long table on it and another larger, rectangular table set below. Both are laid with white tablecloths, silver candlesticks, china, and crystal; once again, Harry has the distinct impression they’re attending a dinner party.

It makes sense.

Cult leaders gain loyalty from their members by promising things, by making their followers believe they have something to gain. And with Riddle and his Death Eaters’ bigotry and superiority complexes, such tangible luxuries would be an effective mechanism for control. It’s the same reason Riddle does not insist that his cult members live at the castle with him, as so many leaders do with their respective compounds. Riddle is smart. He knows that tactics that might work on other cult followers won’t necessarily work on his own. Tom Riddle is always in control, but his Death Eaters must believe that they also have their own lives.

Harry stands with Snape while Riddle takes the centre seat at the head table. He’s flanked by four chairs on either side, and Harry watches as eight cult members sit down beside their master.

“The inner circle,” Snape says quietly, and Harry nods. Those cult members whom Riddle calls most often to do his bidding. His most trusted and perhaps the most loyal. Notably, Bellatrix Lestrange, his father’s estranged cousin, is at Riddle’s right hand side. Then there’s her husband, Rodolphus, and Lucius Malfoy.

Once the head table is seated, the rest of the party is able to sit down. Harry sits next to Snape and, remembering his manners from the dinners his dad used to host, takes the white linen napkin and unfolds it on his lap. Servants appear a moment later, bottles of wine in their hands. Again, Harry follows Snape’s lead and nods when offered a glass of red.

Riddle stands, and everyone stops talking to look up at the head table. “I hope you’re enjoying your evening. Tonight, we have two new guests.” Harry holds his breath as Riddle’s gaze falls on him and Snape. “Please make them feel welcome. We will discuss upcoming events after our meal.” He sits down, and the servants reappear with trays filled with food.

“Events,” Harry says under his breath. “Is that what he calls them?”

Snape doesn’t respond, but Harry thinks he sees the hint of a smile flicker across his face.

“So, Severus,” the man across from them says. He’s ladling potatoes and greens onto his plate. “Didn’t expect to see you round these parts again.”

The woman beside him laughs, an unpleasant sound. “Didn’t expect you’d be _allowed_ around these parts again.”

Harry frowns. He doesn’t care for the couple’s tone.

“It’s good to see you again, too, Amycus,” Snape says before looking to Harry. “Harry Black. Amycus and Alecto Carrow.”

Harry nods in greeting. He doesn’t like the Carrows, but he didn’t expect to like any of Riddle’s followers. The woman—Alecto—laughs again, and Harry wishes he had his notebook. Taking notes, recording observations, would make this seem more like a class exercise or practical and less like the very real social hour with psychos he’s currently experiencing.

Snape seems entirely unaffected. The set of his shoulders is relaxed, and Harry watches as the man’s long fingers twirl the stem of his wine glass. Blood red liquid swirls up the sides. Harry is impressed with Snape’s composure and calm.

The mains are served, and Harry busies himself with cutting his meat so he can observe without having to engage in conversation. Snape talks enough for the both of them. While not loquacious by any means, he negotiates the various threads of discussion with ease.

The Carrows are painfully easy to read. Arrogant and sadistic, the two clearly enjoy their position as Riddle’s lackeys far too much for comfort. It is obvious that they wish they were called on to do even more of the man’s dirty work, and their admiration for the cult leader is written plainly across their faces. Beside the Carrows sits an older man. He’s unshaved, but the gray of his beard does nothing to hide the viciousness of his expression. Though he appears absorbed in his meal, Harry can tell he’s listening to the ongoing prattle of his neighbours.

When he does finally speak, his voice is harsh. “Not sure why you two are so confident the Dark Lord’s going to give you more responsibilities. Not since you cocked up that last assignment.” Alecto stiffens noticeably, but Amycus only glares.

“Now, now, Fenrir, that’s not fair.”

Fenrir. Harry makes a mental note. Notoriously savage, Fenrir Grayback joined Riddle early on, and it was rumoured that he was one of the first to come back to the cult after Riddle’s return. Though, he has apparently never been rewarded with a place in Riddle’s inner circle.

Amycus is still talking. “Alecto was tricked into revealing that information. The Dark Lord knows that as well as anybody. And no harm came of it, anyhow.” The man takes a large gulp of wine. “Alecto was just being friendly with that old bint at The Broomsticks, and it’s not like she didn’t already know some Death Eaters were in town.” Amycus glances over at Snape. “Severus, here, said so himself.”

Snape nods in acknowledgment but doesn’t say anything.

“Perhaps,” Grayback says, wiping his mouth with the back of a thick hand, “but the Lord doesn’t tolerate mistakes, even if nothing comes of it.”

Amycus Carrow doesn’t say anything else. His expression has turned quite sour.

To Harry’s left sit three younger men close to his own age—Gregory Goyle Jr., Blaise Zabini, and Vincent Crabbe Jr. Harry vaguely remembers Zabini, a handsome boy with a supercilious expression, from Eton, but they weren’t in the same house and he can’t recall ever having a conversation with him. Crabbe and Goyle Juniors are the spitting images of their fathers—both seated at the head table—and it’s readily apparent that they, like the Carrows, are here for their brawn, not their brains.

Harry is a bit surprised that there aren’t more Death Eaters his age. Typically, cult leaders target younger members, as they are often vulnerable and easily impressionable. In this case, however, Harry realises that most of Riddle’s followers would have indeed been young when they first joined the cult in the 1970s or 80s. That they are still here now is a testament to their loyalty. Or, Harry knows, to the fear that Riddle is able to instil in his followers.

The food is delicious, but Harry’s stomach is in knots. He can’t help but feel that, at any moment, they’ll be found out. But dinner passes. Snape makes small talk. Harry joins in a brief discussion with Zabini and Goyle about Manchester United’s chances against Liverpool in league play this year, but, for the most part, he observes, and nothing bad happens.

Then their plates are cleared, pudding is served, and Tom Riddle is standing. Harry’s heart races as he approaches their table.

“Severus, a moment of your time.”

Harry’s heart stops racing. In fact, Harry’s sure it stops beating all together. But Snape merely stands and nods as if he’s been expecting this all along. Then he follows the man out of the dining hall as though he’s joining an old friend for tea, not being summoned by the most dangerous man in the country.

The next fifteen minutes are the longest of Harry’s life. A waiter refills his glass, but he doesn’t drink. Instead he stares down into the crimson liquid, listens to Antonin Dolohov and Thorfinn Rowle argue over the perceived pros and cons of small versus large calibre weaponry, and prays to every god he knows that Riddle doesn’t kill Snape.

But then Snape returns, looking no worse for wear. Riddle appears a moment later and calls his inner circle to an adjoining room. The party continues in the main hall, but Snape beckons Harry to follow, and together they slip out the door and into the clear summer night.

***

“How well do you know Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange?” Snape is a few paces ahead of him. They are far enough from the castle now that they can talk without risk of being overheard.

“Not at all,” Harry answers truthfully. “My dad always acted like they didn't exist.”  
  
“Understandable,” Snape says.

“They’re only our second cousins or some rot like that, and blood doesn’t make someone family.” Sirius always made that clear. After all, he and Harry might not be biologically related, but they are, without a doubt, father and son.

“And, I take it, the same could be said for Narcissa and Lucius?”  
  
“Yeah,” Harry says. “It’s not like we’ve ever had the Malfoys over for Christmas dinner or anything.”

Snape curls his nose as though he’s just smelled something foul. “Good thing, that.”  
  
“Yeah,” Harry hesitates before continuing, “you know a lot of Death Eaters, don't you?” It feels as though he’s voicing some secret, but as much was apparent after their dinner.

Snape doesn't deny it. “Unfortunately,” he says simply. He doesn’t offer additional information, and Harry doesn’t ask. He trusts Snape now. That much is certain. He doesn’t need to press for private details.

“Have there ever been more women in Riddle’s cult?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Although, years ago, I believe Lucius expected Narcissa to join.” Snape laughs. “He’s long given up hope of that happening, though.” Snape pulls a crushed packet of Dunhills out of his pocket. He lights one, the tip glowing orange against the darkness. “What does your research show?”

“Not much,” Harry admits. “Though, it’s clear Riddle doesn’t care for women.”

“No, I don’t believe he does.”

“It makes sense. Misogyny goes hand-in-hand with Riddle’s bigotry.”

“Yes,” Snape agrees.

Tom Riddle has never had any known romantic relationships, significant or otherwise. Harry knows the cult leader would consider such a commitment a sign of weakness, and he could never view anyone as his equal. He undoubtedly sees women as he sees all his followers: as tools for his use. Nothing more. And he can surely get what he needs—satisfy any desires—without giving anything in return. “So that leaves Bellatrix and Alecto.”

Snape nods, taking a drag off his cigarette. He exhales a thin stream of smoke.

“Not too bright, the Carrows,” Harry says, when Snape doesn’t offer anything else.

“No, I’d say not.” Snape laughs. “But yet, they’re teachers.”

“Teachers?” Harry stops in his tracks, horrified.

Snape nods. “At Lathallan.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Unfortunately, I’m not.”

Harry’s not sure what disturbs him more. That two people who are clearly dumber than rocks could be professors at the prestigious boarding school, or that two people who enjoy murder and torture for sport could work with children. “That’s…well, that’s appalling.”

“Yes.”

“And what was it?” Harry asks, sidestepping a puddle. “A whirlwind Death Eater romance?”

“Better,” Snape says, dropping his cigarette butt and crushing it beneath his boot. “They’re brother and sister.”

Harry nearly trips. The pudding he ate not a half hour before threatens to make a reappearance. “That’s disgusting.”

Snape smiles. Harry sees a flash of white teeth. “Quite.”

The rest of the walk is pleasant. The night is crisp but clear, and the adrenaline from the evening is still coursing pleasantly through Harry’s veins. Snape also seems to be in a good mood, and Harry can’t help but like the openness of his expression. While not necessarily handsome, the man’s features are rather striking when not marred by his seemingly perpetual frown.

“Drink?” Snape says when they reach The Hog’s Head.

“Definitely.”

They take their usual seats at the end of the bar, and Aberforth actually smiles as he pulls the bottle of whisky from the shelf. “I see you two idiots survived the night.” He pours their drinks. “Another hour and I would have called in the search party.”

Harry laughs, but he hears the truth in the man’s words. It makes him happy to know that the barman is looking out for them. They drink in silence for a while. Harry’s excitement over the evening’s success rests like a warm weight in his chest. He’s happy right now, and he can’t think of another place he’d rather be. He watches Snape out of the corner of his eye. The man’s lips are wet with whisky, his pale cheeks pinked from the long walk. Still, there’s something that’s been weighing on Harry’s mind since they left the castle.

Aberforth refills his drink, and Harry stares down into the amber liquid considering his words. “What did Riddle mean, when he said he thought his Regulus had come back?”

Snape exhales sharply. Harry thinks he sees his hand shake as he sets down his glass. “Are you certain you want to know?”

“Yes.”

Snape picks his glass up again, but he does not drink. Instead he turns to Harry, his expression unreadable. “Regulus Black was a Death Eater. He joined when he was seventeen.”

Harry nods blankly. He feels shaky and cold, but he’s not surprised. Perhaps he should be, but a part of him knew it all along. “Did Riddle kill him?”

Snape shakes his head. “I don’t think so. But he wanted out. He was trying to leave.”

Harry sets his glass down. “You can’t get out.”

“No, not typically,” Snape says. “I’m not sure if Voldemort ever knew what he was planning, but a few others did—fellow Death Eaters—people your uncle counted as his friends.”

Harry traces a line of condensation down the side of his glass with his thumb. “He was betrayed.”

“Yes.” Snape nods. “By the very people he thought he could trust.”

Harry can hear the disgust, the loathing in Snape’s voice, and it sounds…personal.

“You and Regulus,” he says carefully, “you were close?”

“Yes,” Snape answers after a long moment. “Yes.”

They finish their drinks and Aberforth refills them yet again. “My dad,” Harry says, sliding his glass from one hand to the other, “did he know what happened to his brother?”

Snape nods. “For all their differences, Sirius was proud of Regulus.” He takes a slow sip of whisky. “And I think Reg knew that.”

Harry changes the subject then. The weight of those memories gradually fades under the fluid warmth of the alcohol. Harry enjoys talking to Snape. The man’s sense of humour and quick wit makes him laugh, and Snape is more intelligent than anyone Harry knows.

“Are you seeing anyone?” The whisky makes the question come easier, but Harry still can’t believe his nerve. He knows Snape isn’t married, but after weeks of spending all hours of the day with him, Harry still knows practically nothing about him.

The man looks at him as if he’s sprouted tentacles and, for a moment, Harry’s certain he’s overstepped a boundary. But then Snape laughs, a self-deprecating sound, and says, “Surely you know me better than that by now, Mr. Black.” His face is blank, unreadable, but there’s an implication there that warms Harry’s stomach more than the alcohol ever could.

***

“You knew Riddle before,” Harry says. They’re in the motel room, working on the article. Containers of Chinese takeaway are spread out on the desk between them.

“Yes,” Snape replies, not looking up from his legal pad. He makes a note in the margin, his handwriting elegant and narrow lines of slick black ink. “He courted me out of Eton. I think it was only natural that Voldemort be drawn to other King’s Scholars, and he thought I had particular…talents to offer.”

Harry spears a piece of broccoli with his chopstick. “How disturbing.”

“Perhaps,” Snape says noncommittally. He sets down his pen and reaches for the box of lo mein. “It was flattering, as well. Then, when I was granted fellowship at Oxford, he renewed his efforts.”

“Why you?” Harry asks, taking a swig from his water bottle. “I mean, there were other King’s Scholars.”

“I suppose Voldemort thought we shared similar philosophies.”

“Did you?” Snape’s comment unsettles Harry, but he tries not to show it.

“Maybe. More so I think he was interested in my field of study.”

“Chemistry?” Harry frowns before popping a piece of chicken into his mouth. It’s tangy and sweet. “Was he interested in drugs or something?”

“Yes, but not the ones you most likely have in mind.”

“What do you mean?”

“My focus was medical research and pharmacology. Voldemort was particularly interested in my work in biomedical gerontology.”

“What?” Harry pauses, chopstick suspended midair.

“The human body is an amazing thing,” Snape says in explanation. “It is capable of self-regeneration—take, for example, your skin and blood cells.” He twists a noodle around his chopstick. “The body is capable, in so many cases, of self-healing. It can survive injury, trauma, and illness. And people are living longer, healthier lives.”

“Why not prolong that indefinitely?” Harry says, understanding.

“Everyone fears death.”

“Of course they do. It’s human nature to fear the unknown, but that doesn’t make immortality any less terrifying.” The thought is repugnant to Harry.

“To you or me, perhaps,” Snape says. “But Voldemort has an unnatural need for control, and I believe it infuriates him that he has no control over life and death.”

“No one can control life and death.”

“No, but Voldemort is megalomaniacal to believe that, maybe, he can be the exception.”

***

They attend another meeting the following week. Riddle talks for over an hour. Harry is surprised the man doesn’t choke on his own rhetoric.

It’s perhaps the most mind numbing and miserable thing Harry has ever experienced. Most of the Death Eaters listen with rapt attention. Only Lucius Malfoy is apparently more interested in inspecting his perfectly manicured fingernails than listening to the vitriol Riddle spews.

Harry observes each cult member. It’s hard to imagine that so many people actually buy into the crap Riddle’s selling. It’d be laughable if it weren’t so terrifying.

Snape sits beside him, legs crossed, ankle resting on his knee. The man actually looks bored. His cool regard is the complete and polar opposite of the agitation Harry feels. Snape places on hand on Harry’s knee, and Harry realises he’s bouncing his leg, foot tapping on the floor as his entire body vibrates with nerves. Harry stills, and Snape removes his hand. Harry feels its absence distinctly.

***

After, they drink far too much at Aberforth’s bar then stumble together up the narrow steps towards their motel room. Harry trips and nearly falls. He laughs as Snape catches him, a strong arm around his waist to steady him. The man fumbles with the key, pushing open the door and leading the way into their dark room.

Harry leans back against the wall and closes his eyes as the room spins slightly. When he opens them again, Snape is watching him, eyes dark, pupils blown wide.

Harry steps forwards without thinking, but when he presses his lips to Snape’s, he is terrified the man will push him away. But Snape only tenses briefly—hands clenched, spine stiff and straight—before his tongue slips like honey into Harry’s mouth.

“Have you thought about this?” Snape asks, pulling away with a gasp. The words burn hot and fast against Harry’s skin; it’s as though he’s held his hand up to a flame.

“Yes.” Truthfully, it’s all he’s thought about for days and days. He falls asleep at night imagining what it’d be like to slip into Snape’s bed naked and aroused, and when he dreams, he dreams of the man’s hands running over his body like water.

Harry closes his eyes and tries not to think about the warmth flooding his veins. It’s not wise. He knows that. Snape is old enough to be his father and they’re on a job—a very dangerous job at that. But Harry’s head is swimming from the alcohol and he’s seen the way Snape looks at him, so ignores the voice telling him it’s a bad idea and kisses Snape again.

Snape’s hands slip under Harry’s jumper, his fingertips five searing points against the small of his back. Harry sighs and arches into his touch, feeling the flutter and twist of his stomach. He’s shaking.

Snape walks them back towards the bed. And then there are hands on Harry’s arms, holding him still, fingers clenching hard enough to bruise. Snape presses his mouth to Harry’s; his lips are soft and dry, and Harry kisses back. His thumbs smooth over Snape’s cheekbones, slip along his jaw. He takes another step back, Snape following as his teeth scrape against the man’s bottom lip. His thighs hit the bed and he pulls Snape down with him, body pressed flush with his.

Snape’s hands are at his waist, tugging Harry’s jumper over his head. He drags his lips along Harry’s throat, and Harry groans. Snape tenses as Harry’s fingers find his shirt buttons. He undoes one, then another, exposing a path of pale skin down the man’s chest. A line of dark hair stretches between Snape’s nipples. When Harry sucks one into his mouth, lets his teeth graze pebbled skin, Snape hisses. But when Harry goes to push his shirt off his shoulders, Snape grabs his hand, stopping him.

“Harry, no, I…”

But Harry, thinking the man self-conscious, presses his mouth to his, cutting him off. “Stop. I want this.” And Snape lets him pull his shirt off.

It’s then that Harry see it. Thin coils of black ink forming a serpent and skull on Snape’s forearm.

Harry feels as though he’s been doused in ice water. He recoils as though stung, mind reeling, nausea rocking his system. “That’s a… _Oh my God._ ” He closes his eyes, but when he opens them again the tattoo is still there. Harry scrambles off the bed. “You lied to me.”

“Harry, no, I’m not…”

Harry feels off kilter, his entire world knocked off its axis, and he can’t breathe. “You’re a fucking Death Eater, Snape. You can’t deny it. The evidence is right there on your bloody arm.”

Snape looks absolutely wrecked, but Harry doesn’t care. He grabs his clothes and flees. In the hallway, he pulls his jumper back on over bare skin and shoves his feet in his trainers before heading down the stairs to the bar. Aberforth raises an eyebrow as he sits down but pours him a drink without Harry having to ask.

“Lovers’ spat?” Aberforth says, setting a whisky down in front of him.

“Oh?” Harry blinks up at him. “No, nothing like that.” His fingers shake as he reaches for the glass so he tucks his hand down between his legs instead. He feels numb; everything seems to be unravelling around him. His heart is still thudding painful against his ribs, but his chest feels hollowed out. Of course it wasn’t love or even affection that drove him into Snape’s arms that evening. It was nothing so indulgent, but Harry had _trusted_ him, and he thought that maybe, someday, there could be more between them.

Aberforth looks at him for a long moment, keen eyes piercing his. It’s clear he knows far more than he’s letting on. “I take it you found something out about Severus, something you think changes everything.” Harry picks up his drink and takes a long swallow. The alcohol burns his throat, his stomach.

“He betrayed me.” The words hang in the air for a moment, strange and unsettling. The air around him is heavy and intense, and suddenly Harry feels stifled, though it's chilly in the bar.

“I’m sure you think he did, but I can assure you that’s not the case.”

Harry stares down in to his glass. Aberforth can’t understand, and he wonders how many people Snape’s deceived. “It is.”

“If you’re referring to that rather unfortunate tattoo, you need to know that it doesn’t define who Severus is.”

Harry looks up, eyes wide. “You know?”

Aberforth rolls his eyes. “Of course I know. As much as Severus tries to keep his past a secret, some things just can’t be hidden.”

Harry stares, incredulous.

“Think about it, Harry,” Aberforth says. “Everything you know about Severus, everything that made you care about him. None of that is different now merely because he made some poor decisions two decades ago.”

Harry laughs, a harsh sound to his own ears. “Joining a fucking cult of murderers? Yeah, I’d say that was a foolish decision.”

“And Severus would agree a hundred times over.” Aberforth pulls a glass from beneath the counter and pours himself a splash of whisky. It’s the first time Harry has seen him drink. “Now you have to decide if the man you _know_ Severus to be outweighs the new impression you have based on what you think he’s done.”

Aberforth walks to the end of the bar to help another customer. Harry sips at his drink. He doesn’t know what to do. He can’t go to the police. Snape’s done nothing wrong, nothing Harry’s witnessed at least. And, as far as he knows, Dark Mark tattoos aren’t admissible in court. Harry pats at his pockets. All his stuff is up in the motel room and he doesn’t even have his wallet. He could call his dad, have him buy him a train ticket back to London. Or there’s Dumbledore. He could walk to see Albus. Harry finishes his drink and is just about to stand when someone sits down beside him.

It’s Snape. The man’s fully dressed again, long-sleeved shirt covering the tattoo Harry now knows is on his forearm. He doesn’t know what to say; he’s not even sure he can look at him.

Snape signals to Aberforth, and he pours him a drink. Snape takes a slow sip, then says, “I can’t imagine how you must feel, but you have to let me explain.”

Harry’s shaking. He’s never been this angry. “Right. If you think you can explain away that mark on your arm then—”

“No,” Snape says, “there is nothing I can say that will make the mark go away, but I still think you should listen to me.”

Harry’s not sure he _can_ listen, but he knows he needs to try. “Fine,” Harry says, voice harsh, “tell me. Tell me whatever it is you think I need to hear.”

Snape looks around. The Hog’s Head isn’t crowded, but a couple sits at the opposite end of the bar, and a few of the tables are occupied. “Not here.”

Harry wants to laugh, but he’s certain he’ll sound hysterical. “Not here? You’re insane if you think I’ll go anywhere with you.”

Snape takes a deep breath. It’s clear he’s doing all he can to remain calm. “Just walk with me. We won’t go far.”

“Go with him, son,” Aberforth interjects. “If you’re not back in half an hour, I’ll come looking for you myself.” The barman gives him an encouraging nod as he follows Snape to the door.

It’s a clear night. They walk across the street to the bench under the solitary street lamp. Snape sits down, leaning forwards to rest his elbows on his knees. In the flickering golden light, Snape’s skin looks drawn and pale. Harry wraps his arms around his chest against the chill. “Why’d you do it?” he asks finally. “Why’d you join?”

Snape exhales. “I’m not entirely sure.” He sounds tired, sad. “I think I wanted validation, confirmation that I was superior to my peers.”

Harry sits down beside Snape.

The man looks at him for a long moment before continuing. “I called myself a Death Eater for nearly two years, and I worked closely with Voldemort for much of that time. He was excited with the work I was doing on cell regeneration, especially the potential for practical application.”

“He’s always been obsessed with cheating death.”

“Yes.”

“But how did you get out?” Harry knows Tom Riddle, and he knows that no one ever leaves. He takes a deep breath. He’s not sure he’ll ever stop shaking. “You did get out, didn’t you?” Harry’s voice is not his voice; it’s too high, too shrill, but he can hardly hear it over the pounding of his heart. “Because you’re alive, and I know Riddle doesn’t let his followers go. Not to mention that he seemed to welcome you back with open arms.”

“Harry,” Snape says, voice firm, and some small corner of his brain registers that it’s the first time the man has called him by his given name. Snape places a hand on Harry’s back, a warm weight between his shoulder blades. “Harry,” he says again, “I am not a Death Eater. I left Voldemort in 1981, shortly before…” his voice catches, “before your mother died.”

Harry looks at Snape. The man’s eyes have that same haunted quality they had the last time they discussed Harry’s biological parents when they were at Dumbledore’s. “What?”

“I knew. I was part of his inner circle, and I knew what he was planning.”

The man sounds broken. It’s clear he cared for Lily. Still, Harry feels sick to his stomach, and he has to remind himself that Riddle alone was responsible for his parents’ deaths. Snape had nothing to do with it. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m sure Sirius told you James Potter was with Scotland Yard.” Snape pulls the packet of Dunhills out of his pocket and lights one. “He was a recruit of great promise, making a name for himself in their anti-terrorism division. Voldemort targeted your parents for a reason.” He takes a long drag off the cigarette; the tip glows orange in the dark of the night.

Harry breathes out through his nose. He feels as if he might hyperventilate.

“Not all of Voldemort’s murders were random,” Snape continues. “I went to Albus. Told him what he was planning, begged him to protect Lily.”

Harry stands up. He needs to pace. He needs another drink. He needs to get away from this conversation, but he also needs to hear what else Snape has to say.

“Albus made me a police informant and moved your family into protective custody.” Snape shakes his head, bringing the cigarette to his lips. A thin coil of smoke drifts into the air in front of him. “You should have been safe.”

“Then what happened?”

“They were betrayed. One of your parents’ friends betrayed your location to Voldemort.”

Harry is horrified. “Who?”

“We never knew, but Voldemort discovered where you were hiding and murdered James and Lily.” Snape takes a final drag off the cigarette before dropping it on the ground and crushing it under the heel of his shoe. “You are lucky to have survived.”

“I…I know,” Harry manages.

Snape stares straight ahead. His dark eyes are shadowed. “After Voldemort disappeared, most of his followers fled. Some were arrested.”

Harry nods. “Bellatrix, Rabastan, and Rodolphus Lestrange, Barty Crouch Jr. all served time in a jail.”

“Voldemort never knew I was working with Albus and the Northern Constabulary.”

“But you didn’t return immediately when Riddle resurfaced. How did you explain that?”

“I reminded him of my influential position at _Phoenix Press_ and explained that, once it became clear to me that you were interested in joining the cause, I thought it prudent to do everything in my power to assure that happened.” Snape makes a show of looking at his watch. “And to think, it only took me four months to make a Death Eater out of you.”

***

Harry returns to the motel room with Snape that night.

Snape continues to wear his long-sleeved t-shirts to bed, and they do not talk about the Dark Mark on his left forearm. Riddle does not call them back to Hogwarts, and part of Harry is relieved. He has not finished his research, but he does not think he can handle another cult meeting either.

Snape spends the days writing.

Harry types up all of his findings. His notes are meticulous, and though he has not come to any consistent conclusions about the motivations and expectations various Death Eaters had upon joining Tom Riddle, he has completed a psychological profile on each known cult member.

And though Harry wants to hate Snape, wants to detest him for things he’s done, the decisions he’s made, and what he concealed from Harry, he quickly realises that he can’t. That realisation, alone, is perhaps not as shocking as it should be. Harry has, after all, been drawn to the man for quite a while now. What is shocking is the way the man is creeping into his thoughts at all hours of the day. This project has clearly had strange effects on him, and Snape is everywhere. Harry cannot, for the life of him, get the man out of his head.

***

The next time Harry jerks off, he doesn’t hide what he’s doing.

He can’t sleep, but then again, he never can; he hasn’t slept in days. Sometimes he worries he’ll never be able to sleep again.

It’s been over a week since the night Harry kissed Snape, since the night Harry discovered the Dark Mark on Snape’s arm, and they haven’t talked about it. Harry’s not sure where that night was leading, whether anything would have become of _them_ , but he knows it can’t ever be the same now, and a part of Harry wishes he could go back to that night before a tattoo and two decades of lies came between them.

Snape’s curled on his side, facing the wall. His breathing is even, steady, but it’s not deep enough for Harry to be sure he’s asleep.

He doesn’t care.

He pulls his pyjama pants down past his thighs before taking his cock out, hissing as cool air hits sensitive skin. He groans as he wraps his hand around his shaft, feeling the throb against his palm. He lets his fingertips brush the head; it's already damp, and his thumb slides across the pre-come welling there.

Harry refuses to turn his head to look at the man in the bed next to his. Still, he wonders if Snape knows what he’s doing, if Snape is awake and watching, and if the man is hard. He imagines what Snape would look like gripping his own cock.

Harry thrusts into his fist with a groan, and he bites his lip, thinking of Snape’s mouth pressed to his throat, Snape’s hands skimming against his skin.

“Fuck,” Harry gasps as spunk streaks through his fingers, splattering against his stomach, his chest. He closes his eyes and listens to his heart pounding in his ears as he tries to catch his breath.

Across the room, Snape lies perfectly still.

***

On the afternoon of 19 July, Harry goes for a walk. Snape’s working on the article, and Harry needs to clear his head. He takes the road away from the village towards Hogwarts. Before the castle is in sight, though, he cuts west across an open field to the forest. He skirts the edge of the trees for half a kilometre or so before finding a small path winding into the trees’ depths.

The green canopy overhead is thick, and sunlight only filters through in patches, dotting the forest floor like leaves. Less than thirty paces in, the light begins to fade altogether. It’s midday, but here it looks eerily like twilight. Tree limbs crisscross above Harry’s head with leaves so dense he can no longer see the sky.

It’s cooler, too. Harry zips up his jacket and moves quickly. He’s not sure where he’s going, but the ground is worn underfoot, mud and leaves and pine needles trampled as though someone has walked this way before. He’s pretty sure he won’t get lost if he keeps to the trail, and he wants to know where it leads.

He walks for fifteen minutes or so, listening to the birds chirp and the insects buzz around him. It’s pleasant here and it’s nice to have time to think. After a while, though, he realises that it’s gone strangely quiet. He stops and listens, but he can no longer hear any birds or bugs around him. Even the wind rustling the leaves seems to have stilled.

He takes a few more steps before he hears it: voices. They’re muffled by distance but it's unmistakable. They’re chanting.

Harry’s breath catches. He’s seen enough movies and read enough books to know that chanting is never good. He should turn around now and go back. He’s at least thirty minutes from the village and every nerve in his body is telling him that he should get as far away from this place as possible.

Instead, he pulls out his mobile and types a quick text to Snape. He’s not sure what he expects the man to do, but at least, if he turns up missing, he figures they’ll have a place to start looking. Then he silences his phone and cautiously moves towards the voices.  
  
There’s a clearing about twenty metres ahead. He recognises Tom Riddle immediately. He’s surrounded by eight cloaked, masked men. The inner circle. There was no meeting today, but these select few are closer to the cult leader; they are around to do his bidding when the others are not considered privileged enough to attend.

Harry can’t make out what they’re saying. The cadence is soothing and melodic, but the words sound like Latin and he doesn’t understand. He moves closer, half expecting to see a cauldron bubbling in the centre of the circle, but then he stops horrified.

There, tied to a tree just outside the circle of masked men is a woman. She's bound and gagged. Ropes are wound tightly around her body, and she's hung upside down by her ankles, suspended from a low hanging branch. Harry nearly cries out at the sight. He feels sick to his stomach and terror courses through his body like electricity.

Somehow he manages to pull his mobile from his pocket. His hand shakes and he nearly drops it, but he opens the camera and snaps two quick pictures, fingers fumbling on the screen.

The voices are louder now, still chanting in unison as Riddle steps towards the woman. In one hand, he holds a small golden cup with two delicately wrought handles; in the other, he has a knife.

Harry knows what Tom Riddle is going to do before he does it. He wants desperately to run forward, to stop him, to save the woman hanging from the tree. But it all happens too fast. He can’t move his feet in time, and some small rational voice in his head tells him that even if he could, he’d just end up murdered too.

So he stands there watching, more afraid than he's ever been in his life, as Riddle raises the knife and slits the woman's throat.

There's so much blood.

More blood than Harry has ever seen.

Riddle is saying something about life giving more life as he's catching the blood in the gold cup, but Harry doesn't stick around to watch anymore.

He forces himself to move, to turn and run as quickly as he’s ever run in his entire life. Branches scratch his face and will most likely leave lash marks on his cheeks. His eyes sting, his chest aches, and his heart’s pounding so hard it feels likes it's about to crack open his ribs, but he keeps moving, one foot in front of the other. Twice he stumbles over exposed roots and nearly falls, but he manages to stay on his feet, and finally he reaches the forest’s edge.

He sprints across the field towards the road and, for the first time, glances back over his shoulder to the trees.

There’s no one there.

He doubles over, hands on his knees, chest heaving, as he tries to catch his breath. Then he takes off at a run again towards Hogsmeade.

Snape looks up from his work when Harry bursts through the door. “What the hell happened to you?” he asks.

“Albus,” Harry gasps, lungs aching. “We need Albus.”

***

They call the police.

Harry listens as Albus talks to the Chief Constable on the ancient landline behind the bar.

Aberforth’s made tea. Harry was surprised he even had the stuff, but Albus insisted, and now they sit and drink from white porcelain mugs while Albus calmly relays the directions to the forest clearing just as Harry told them to him.

All the while, Snape’s hand is a comforting weight against the centre of his back.

Finally, Albus hangs up the phone. His kind eyes are full of concern as he looks at Harry. Harry shivers, clutching his mug between both hands. It's warm against his palms. He’s finally stopped shaking, but he still feels clammy and cold. He can’t get the image of the woman out of his head.

“The police are on their way,” Albus says. “If the body is still there, they’ll find it.”

Harry nods.

“The pictures you took and your eye witness account will be admissible in court.” Albus take a sip of tea. His eyes don't leave Harry. “It's time to end this, Harry.”

***

_Charity Burbage was murdered by Tom Riddle on 19 July 2004, after being abducted from her home two days before._

_Although the cult leader is notorious for randomly selecting his victims, Ms. Burbage was clearly targeted by two known Death Eaters—Amycus and Alecto Carrow—for her relationship with Franklin Clay of Aberdeenshire. Mr. Clay is black. Tom Riddle is known for his extreme bigotry, including his belief in “blood purity,” or the notion that those of wealth, status, and white skin colour must not intermarry or procreate with those deemed inferior, lest their “pure” blood be polluted._

_Charity Burbage was a professor at Lathallan School, where the Carrows also worked. Lathallan, a prestigious boarding school in North East Scotland, had no comment on the Death Eater affiliations of two of their faculty members._

***

That night, Harry gets ready for bed slowly. He stands in the shower for ages, as though the too-hot water can wash away what he saw that afternoon. But when he closes his eyes to rinse his hair, the images are still branded across his eyelids; they are seared into his vision, blindingly horrific and achingly devastating.

He hears the woman’s pleas and Riddle’s cold voice condemning her. And then there’s the blood—so much blood. It’s so dark it’s nearly black.

Harry opens his eyes again, half-expecting the water to be stained red, but it washes clear down the drain and he bends to shut the faucet off.

He stares in the mirror as he towels off. His skin is pinked from heat and scrubbing, but otherwise he looks exactly the same. It’s odd. He thinks he should look different now. Everything has changed. Dumbledore is right, though. No one has witnessed one of Riddle’s crimes and lived to come forward and tell about it.

He can testify. They can get him now.

Harry pulls on his sleep pants and goes back into the main room. Snape is sitting up in bed reading. He puts the book down when Harry appears. “Are you all right?” he asks carefully.

“Not really,” Harry admits, “but I will be.” He doesn’t sound convinced, but he has to believe that he _will_ be okay again. Harry doesn’t get into bed. Instead he stands there, curling his fingers in the hem of his t-shirt and no doubt looking utterly ridiculous. “Would you mind…I mean…I’m not sure if you would, but could I sleep with you tonight?” He stumbles over the words, but they do not sound nearly as life altering out loud as they did in his head. “Just to sleep, if that’s okay,” he adds quickly.

“Of course,” Snape says.

“If you’d rather I not… I don’t want to impose, I just—”

“Mr. Black,” Snape cuts him off, “please stop talking.” He folds the covers back in invitation.

Harry climbs into the bed before reaching over to shut off the light. He feels awkward, though, and the darkness does nothing to calm his unease. He lies there tensely on the edge of the mattress before Snape shifts and, with a grumbled “for Christ’s sake,” drapes an arm across Harry’s body and pulls him to his chest. The man is a comfortingly warm weight beside him, and, for the first time all night, Harry begins to relax.

“What you saw,” Snape says softly, “will always stay with you. You won’t forget, but the fear, the pain will ease with time.”

Harry nods, knowing Snape can feel the motion.

“And,” Snape continues after a moment, “you can use it. We can finally stop him.”

“I know,” Harry says, “I know.”

***

Harry wakes to sunlight streaming through the window. The sheets are twisted round his hips, and Snape’s breathing is steady against the back of his neck. The sensation slides down his spine to rest in the pit of his stomach. He exhales slowly, and the man shifts. Snape’s hand rests on his hip, a warm weight against his skin.

Slowly, Snape moves his hand, slipping it beneath Harry’s t-shirt to slide along the waistband of his sleep pants. Harry tenses, stomach muscles tightening, and the man stills. “Is this all right?”

“I…yes,” Harry says, because it is. He’s wanted this for days, even if he wasn’t ready to admit it. And now, lying here in bed, despite—or perhaps because of—everything that’s happened, it’s the most natural thing to cover Snape’s hand with his and guide it down.

Harry’s already hard, and he groans as Snape strokes him through the soft fabric of his pyjamas. He lifts his hips, wriggling as he shoves his pants down his thighs. Snape presses his mouth to the curve of Harry’s shoulder before curling long fingers around his cock.

Harry is not going to last long. Snape sweeps his thumb over the sensitive curve of cockhead, smearing the fluid gathered there. Harry twists his fingers in the sheets and tries to focus on the pounding of his heart, on the pulse in his ears, rather than on the smooth slide of Snape’s palm against his prick.

“You’re so hard,” Snape says, voice barely a murmur, “so hard for me.”

Harry rolls his hips, thrusting into Snape’s grasp and arching against him. He feels the man’s erection, hard against his arse. And then he’s coming, cock spurting over Snape’s fingers. Come pools in the hollow of his hip, and Snape drags a fingertip through it, smearing it across Harry’s skin.

Harry rocks back again Snape again, pressing against the man’s hardness and Snape curses. The obscenity sends a shiver down Harry’s spine. “Do you want to fuck me?” Harry’s voice sounds like he hasn’t used it in weeks, but Snape stills, breath catching in his throat.

“Yes.” There’s an undercurrent of desperation there that makes Harry’s cock twitch again.

Harry shoves his pyjama pants down the rest of the way, kicking them off and using them to wipe the drying come off his skin. He tugs his t-shirt over his head, dropping it onto the floor before turning to face Snape. The man is watching him, dark eyes dazed. “You’re gorgeous.”

Harry shrugs, embarrassed by the compliment. “I’m awkward and pale, and I wear ridiculous glasses.”

Snape laughs and the sound causes heat to bloom deep in Harry’s belly. “You’re pale?”

Harry smiles, tracing a finger along the curve of Snape’s cheek. “I like your skin.”

“And I like your ridiculous glasses.”

Snape seems to fit perfectly against him. His hands slide down Harry’s spine and his fingers splay across his back. Harry realises he has always known exactly how the man would feel against him—the soft expanse of skin, the narrow jut of hips, the press of a thigh between his.

Snape kisses him. Their tongues slide together, slow and soft. His arms are around Harry’s waist, and the coverlet is bunched beneath them, but Harry doesn’t care because Snape is pressed against him. When Harry looks up at him, the man’s eyes are dark, pupils blown.

Harry slips a hand beneath Snape’s shirt. “You’re wearing far too many clothes.”

Snape tenses for a moment, no doubt remembering the last time Harry took his shirt off, but then he nods, tugging it over his head.  
  
Harry’s fingers trace lines on his chest; his thumbnail scrapes over a nipple. Then Harry takes his arm, turns it over to see the tattoo.

The Mark is dark against Snape’s pale skin; the grotesque snake curls around the skull in a sickly arabesque. Snape remains absolutely still as Harry traces a fingertip over the slightly raised skin.

“Mr. Black," he says, and there is apprehension in his voice.

“Harry,” he says. “I like it when you call me Harry, and it’s okay. I’m okay now.”

“Harry.” Snape presses a kiss to his temple while Harry works to tug the man’s sleep pants off.

“Just so you know, I haven’t…” Harry licks at the corner of Snape’s mouth. “This will be my first.”  
  
Snape stills. “Ever?”

“Yeah.” Harry refuses to be embarrassed about his complete lack of experience.

“I need you to be sure,” Snape says, hand brushing over Harry’s cheek. Harry can’t stop shaking.

“I am.”

Snape rolls Harry beneath him, and Harry arches up; their cocks slide slickly together. Harry is already hard again, and he looks down between them. “Oh, wow, that’s—” he breaks off in a moan as Snape rolls to the side, skating a hand down Harry’s chest, over the flat planes of his stomach. Harry shivers, muscles clenching.

Snape curls his fingers around Harry’s prick and presses a kiss to his forehead, the curve of his jaw.

“Wait,” Harry gasps. “I want you to fuck me now. I want you to be inside me when I come again.”

Snape exhales shakily.

Something occurs to Harry. “Do you have lube, a condom?” Harry asks, propping himself up on his elbows.

“I…” Severus turns, fumbles under the bed for his kit. He pulls a foil packet and small bottle from his bag. His fingers shake a bit as he uncaps the vial of lubricant. It spills over his fingers, runs down his hand. Harry watches as he reaches down between his legs, brushes his fingers over his opening. Harry hisses and forces himself not to tense as Snape slips a finger inside.

The sensation is sharp and intense and lovely all at once.

“God, yes…” he groans, hand curling round his own cock. "Get me ready."

“Do you like it?” Snape asks. His voice is breathless.

“Yeah.”

“What do you want?” Snape whispers. He slips another finger inside, fucking him slowly, pushing, pressing, twisting inside him. “Tell me what you want.”

The answer comes as easy as breathing. “I want you to fuck me.” He catches Snape’s wrist, pulls his hand away.

Snape nods and rips open the condom, sliding the filmy rubber down his cock before smearing the remnants of oil there, then he positions himself between Harry’s legs, and Harry reaches between them to line him up. Slowly, _slowly,_ Snape pushes in. Harry cries out at the brief flash of pain, but Snape rocks in shallow, careful thrusts until Harry grabs his hips, pulls him forwards with a groan.

“Yes,” Harry gasps, throwing an arm back, bracing himself against the headboard, and Snape thrusts in again. The sensation is razor sharp, and he has to grit his teeth and try, try not to come. “ _Fuck yes…_ " Harry jerks his hips up. Snape hisses and pushes up on his forearms to fuck him in short, quick strokes.

Harry arches into him, meeting each push of his hips with his own. His feet press into the mattress, and Snape sucks at the tendon in Harry’s neck; his tongue is cool against his skin.

“God, yes, make me come.” Snape is shaking above him.

Snape reaches between them to curl his fingers around Harry’s cock.

It’s too much.

Harry comes hard, mouth open, hips jerking, thick warm strands of come smear between their stomachs. He groans, tensing around Snape’s cock, and Snape cries out. Then he’s coming too, cock pulsing deep inside him. Harry trembles beneath him, and he thinks he can feel the pounding of Snape’s heart against his chest.

Harry shifts, and the man’s cock slips out. Harry feels strangely empty, but then Snape collapses beside him, pulls him close to him.

“Oh,” Harry says after a few moments. “I hadn’t even imagined that it could be like that.”

Snape kisses his shoulder, the hollow of his collarbone. “It can be.” The man stands up then. Harry watches, cheek resting on the palm of his hand, as he walks to the bathroom, runs water over a flannel.

He comes back to bed and wipes the cloth over Harry’s stomach and thighs. His touch is so gentle it takes Harry’s breath away.

“Can we sleep now?” Harry says, when Snape is done. His voice slurs softly. “I mean, I know we just woke up, but I think I need a nap.”

The warm weight of the body beside him makes him feel grounded in an ocean of white sheets. It’s an anchor holding him to the flat of the earth. There’s no flash of panic, no thoughts of mass-murdering cult leaders or looming trials. Instead, there’s just the press of sweat-slicked skin against his own. Snape looks at him, and the man’s smile is like a key. Something twists deep inside Harry’s chest.

“We’ll sleep.”

Harry is warm as Snape curls around him.  
  
***

Albus comes up with the plan.

After Charity Burbage’s murder, the police wanted to storm the castle and apprehend Tom Riddle. But then Harry and Snape are summoned to a meeting and Dumbledore convinces the Highlands Constabulary that it’s best to wait until the end of the week when all of Riddle’s Death Eaters are gathered together once and for all.

Harry does not want to go back to Hogwarts. It’s been days since he’s thought about his research, and he knows that this hasn’t been about his project for quite sometime. Rather, they are clearly playing with matters of life and death.

Snape, as usual, appears entirely collected, and Harry wonders if anything can rattle the man. Though, he supposes, he’s used to such things. After all, Snape was already a Death Eater turned spy by the time he was Harry’s age. Severus Snape is the only known member to ever leave Riddle’s cult, and he somehow managed to defect without being found out. It’s a formidable accomplishment, and now Snape has proved himself selflessly willing to risk his life to bring Riddle to justice once and for all.

Despite Harry’s fears, Albus’s plan is sound.

Dumbledore and the Scottish police have coordinated Scotland Yard in London. Backup is ready and standing by. All Harry and Snape have to do is go to the castle, wait for the meeting to begin, confirm that all Death Eaters are present and accounted for, and then call for the cavalry. The police will take it from there.

Albus assures them that nothing can go wrong. And anyone caught participating in cult activities can be arrested and brought to trial. The Death Eaters are a known terrorist organisation. Anyone affiliated—if they can prove it—will go to jail.

Harry’s stomach is in knots as they get ready to leave for the castle. He takes several deep breaths as he does up his laces on his trainers, but his hands are strangely steady.

He watches as Severus rummages around in his duffle at the foot of the bed. The man pulls a handgun out of the bag.

“What's that?” Harry asks, startled at the sight.

“What does it look like?” Severus says, checking the cartridge before securing the weapon in the waistband of his trousers.

“A gun,” Harry says slowly.

“That is correct, Mr. Black. Brilliant observation skills,” Severus says, dryly, “as always.”

“Well of course it's a gun,” Harry manages after a moment. “But why do you have it?” It’s been weeks, and Harry had no idea the man had a loaded weapon in their motel room.

“In case you've forgotten, Tom Riddle is undoubtedly the most dangerous man in the country. I think it’s wise we be prepared.”

Harry can’t help but agree.

***

Once they are at Hogwarts, things escalate quickly.

A nervous energy fills the main hall, and it’s clear from the moment they arrive that something is going to happen. The atmosphere is different than the last two times they’ve been to the castle. The rest of the Death Eaters seem to notice, too. Everyone is on edge.

When Riddle appears, Harry’s breath catches in his throat, and even Snape tenses beside him. The cult leader is dressed as he always is; his long black cloak sweeps the floor as he walks. But his eyes have a crazed look to them tonight, and Harry thinks the whites surrounding his irises are bloodied.

“Welcome, welcome,” Riddle says, and his voice is silkily sibilant and brutally cruel all at once. He walks directly past them, but Snape does not even flinch as the man brushes a pale hand against his shoulder. Harry forces himself to focus on Snape, on his cool detachment and clinical regard, instead of on the terror rushing through his system and threatening to overwhelm.

“Tonight is a truly historic night,” Riddle says, taking his place on the raised dais. “You should all count yourselves honoured to bear witness to it.” He pauses dramatically, taking a moment to look out over his followers. “Tonight I will finally fulfil my destiny. Tonight I will become the master of death.” A murmur spreads over the group as everyone tries to make sense of Riddle’s strange announcement.

Only Snape seems unmoved. The man watches his former lord impassively, his dark eyes calculating. Harry desperately wants to ask Snape what’s going on, what Riddle means. _‘Master of death’_ can’t be a good thing, but he knows to hold his tongue. He clenches his hands into fists, feels his nails bite into his palms, and waits for whatever is about to happen.

“Bella, my dear,” Tom Riddle says then. “Please come join me now. Your loyalty and service are about to be rewarded.”

Bellatrix Lestrange flushes with pride and practically runs to join her master. It’s only then that Harry notices the ring Riddle is holding. It’s large and gold and inset with an angular black stone. He’s twisting it between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand.

Bellatrix stands beside Riddle, her chin raised with an air of haughty condescension. Harry thinks she looks crazier than the cult leader himself but, then again, that observation doesn’t really surprise him.

“There is great magic here,” Riddle says. “Magic that I alone have managed to unlock. Magic that now, with the assistance of you all, I will use to conquer death by mastering life.”

Things happen very fast. Harry doesn’t see the knife until Riddle is drawing it across Bellatrix’s neck. She doesn’t even have time to gasp before her throat is slit. Blood pours from the wound, a sickly red that spills over Riddle’s hands and the ring he’s still holding.

Bellatrix falls to the floor, her now lifeless eyes open in stunned surprise.

Panic spreads through the room as realisation of what’s happened sets in, but Riddle raises his bloodstained hands in the air, as though admiring his handiwork. He slips the ring on his finger before stepping down from the dais.

No one moves. He’s still holding the knife, and Harry watches as he pulls a small and delicate-looking crown from his robes. For some reason, it reminds Harry of the golden cup Riddle had when he murdered Charity Burbage.

“Those things,” Harry manages, though it’s all he can do to make his mouth form the words. “He’s coating them with blood. He had something in the forest, too. A little cup with a handle.”

Snape nods. His too-pale skin is far paler than usual. “He’s creating talismans. I think he must believe they’ll allow him to ward off death.”

“Master of death,” Harry repeats. He’s numb with fear, feet rooted to the spot as he watches as the horrific scene continues to play out before them.

Harry is not sure if Riddle deliberately targets Vincent Crabbe Jr. as he clearly did Bellatrix, or if he’s merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. Within an instant, though, Riddle is behind him, knife pressed to his throat. Crabbe easily has two stone on Riddle, but he doesn’t even try to overpower him. It all happens too fast, and the man seems too shocked to move.

Harry cries out at the slash of the knife. Crabbe is dead instantly.

Harry’s legs feel weak and he’s sure he’s going to be sick. But then Snape’s hand is on his shoulder, a firm point of pressure grounding him in the midst of everything. Snape’s voice is soft and steady in his ear. “We have to get out of here. _Now._ ” The urgency in his tone snaps Harry out of his trance, and he allows Snape to turn him bodily towards the door. It’s only then that he sees the two armed Death Eaters standing guard at the hall’s entrance. Their identities are concealed by their ghastly white masks, and they’re both holding assault rifles.

“Fuck,” Snape swears under his breath. “Where’s Albus and the bloody backup? They should be here by now.”

Most of the Death Eaters are gathered together as far away from Riddle as possible. A few had darted towards the door when Riddle attacked Vincent Crabbe, but there is nowhere to go. Snape is scanning the room, clearly looking for another way out. There is a side door leading to the room Riddle uses to meet with his inner circle, but Harry has never been inside. He doesn’t know if there’s an exit there or if it’s a dead end. Regardless, they’d have to walk past Riddle to make it over there in the first place, and that seems like a decidedly bad idea.

But Snape is pushing him forward anyway. Riddle is momentarily distracted; he’s still dipping the crown in Crabbe’s blood. They are almost to the door when he notices them. Riddle stands and moves towards them with unnatural speed. Harry feels as though they’re caught in slow motion.

When Riddle speaks, his voice is like broken glass. “Why Severus, you have always been one of my most loyal, my most trusted servants.” He’s standing right in front of them now. Harry can smell the blood on his hands, his clothes. The stench is so overpowering that Harry thinks he can taste the cloyingly copper tang of it on his tongue. “I know you, alone,” Riddle continues, “understand my plan. You know what I am attempting to do, and you know that I will succeed.” His voice is raised to near-fever pitch, and Harry can’t take his eyes off the red-stained knife in the man’s red-stained hands.

Snape, however, appears calm. He looks Riddle in the eye, and his voice does not waver when he says, “I do, my Lord.”

Riddle actually smiles. “My Severus,” he says, and the words sound like an endearment, but he’s moving towards Snape with the knife.

Harry remembers the gun.

He pushes Snape to the side as Riddle lunges towards them. Then he reaches beneath Snape’s jacket to his waist and feels the cold metal of the revolver against his fingers. The weapon is heavy in his hand, and he releases the safety and takes aim just as Riddle swings the knife again in a wide, silver-streaked arc.

The sound of the gun is deafening. It echoes throughout the hall and everything falls deathly quiet.

Riddle staggers backwards, his mouth open in an “O” of surprise. A dark patch appears on his chest, the vivid red a stark contrast to the white of his shirt. Riddle brings one hand to the wound as if to staunch the flow of blood, but it’s too late. The stain spreads quickly, and Harry watches in horror as blood begins to pour from the man’s mouth and nose.

He falls to the floor.

Relief washes over Harry. He turns to Snape, but the man is slumped against the wall, fingers pressed to his throat. His hand is wet with blood; his skin is an ashen gray. Harry realises with sickening clarity that Riddle’s last swing of the knife had not missed its mark.

“Severus,” Harry gasps, and the word comes out like a sob. “Severus, please.” He covers Snape’s hand with his own, feeling the wetness, warm and thick against his palm. Somewhere in the distance, Harry hears shouting. He hears the sounds of footsteps in the entrance hall and knows the police have finally arrived, but he pays it no attention. He is entirely focussed on Snape. Blood gushes through their fingers. It pools in the hollows of Snape’s collarbones and stains the front of his shirt.

Snape clutches at the front of Harry’s jumper with his free hand. His eyes look distant, as though he’s staring up at Harry from the depths of a deep well. “Look at me,” he says, and his voice is choked. “Look at me, Harry.”

Harry does.

***

It’s been four days. Snape is still in critical care, but the doctors are optimistic. Harry hasn’t left the hospital. He’s slept curled in a chair in the waiting room. On the second night, a nurse took pity on him and brought him a pillow.

The door to the lifts opens with a ding, and Harry looks up, startled to see his dad standing there. Harry walks over to him, dazed, and Sirius pulls him into a big hug. “I came as soon as I could, kid,” he says, running a hand up and down Harry’s back. “How’s he doing?”

Harry steps away from his dad and shrugs. “Better now. Doctors think he’ll survive.” He looks down, hoping his dad doesn’t see the tears threatening at the corners of his eyes. “But he lost a lot of blood, and he hasn’t woken up yet.”

Sirius frowns but then says, “He’ll be all right. You can count on that. Severus might be a right git, but he’s one of the toughest bastards I know.” His dad glances to the pillow on Harry’s chair. There’s a half-eaten granola bar and an empty coffee cup on the table beside it. “You been sleeping here?”

Harry looks down again. “I…yeah, I have.”

“What on earth for?”

Harry chews on his lip. “I thought about getting a motel room—there’s an inn just down the road, but I—” he trails off, picking at the sleeve of his jumper. He really doesn’t want to have this conversation now. “I just couldn’t. I have to be here when he wakes up.”

Sirius regards him for a long moment, and Harry’s certain he knows there is something he’s not saying. His dad has always been able to read him like an open book. “Is something wrong, kid?” he asks. “Because I don’t think your hanging around the hospital is going to help Snape recover any quicker.”

Harry sits down heavily in the chair. Sirius doesn’t sit, but Harry doesn’t expect him to. "I, er, we’re kind of together?” He thinks, maybe, it sounds better like a question.

"Together?" His dad looks positively scandalised.

“Yeah, I mean,” Harry scuffs his toe along the floor, “I guess so.”

“I don’t understand.”

Harry glances up at his dad, bracing himself for his expression. He's an adult. He can date whomever he wants; he knows his dad won't try to stop him, but that doesn't mean Harry wants to disappoint him. Sirius doesn't look disappointed, though. He doesn't look horrified or even angry. He just looks concerned and more than a little shocked. Harry looks down again; he doesn’t really know what to say, but this is his dad, and Snape...well, Snape is important.

“I’m not sure what happened, but something did.” His heart is pounding and his chest is tight, but he forces his voice to remain steady. “I know that Snape isn’t your favourite person, but he’s smart and he’s funny.” Harry smiles a bit sadly. “He’s a good man, Dad, and I think he cares about me. But now…” Harry twists his hands together. “Now I just have to know that he’s going to be all right.”

Sirius sits down then. He doesn’t say anything else, but he places a hand on Harry’s shoulder and together they wait.

***

Snape wakes up on a Tuesday; he’s been unconscious for six days.

Harry knows Snape was lucky. Riddle missed the carotid artery, and the doctors were able to repair the damage. Still, the relief Harry feels when the nurse appears in the waiting room is backbreaking. It hits him clean in the centre of his chest and takes his breath away.

Snape is propped up on his pillows and looking far paler than usual, but he glares when Harry skids to a halt at the foot of his bed and looks so put out, so disgruntled, that Harry can’t help but grin.

There’s a large white bandage on Snape’s neck, but he’s not bleeding and he’s _alive_ , and isn’t that the greatest thing? “You’re okay,” Harry says.

Snape rolls his eyes. “Mr. Black, what are you doing here?” His voice is scratchy and low, vocal cords no doubt damaged permanently by that blasted knife, but he still sounds amazing.

“Harry, please,” Harry says, ignoring the question. “Call me Harry.”

Snape frowns. “You look like shit.”

Harry brings a hand to his chin; it’s rough with several days of stubble. “You’re one to talk.”

Snape actually laughs. “Yes. I’m sure I look like death warmed over.”

“You do,” Harry admits. “But you look good, too.”

“My memory is hazy, but I don’t recall you suffering from any sort of trauma.”

It’s Harry’s turn to laugh. “No.” He looks at Snape then. “I killed him.”

Snape stiffens, but his expression doesn’t change. “Thank God,” he says after a moment.

Harry sits down in the single chair. “Our article went to press.” Snape raises an eyebrow. “I finished it,” Harry adds quickly. “Well, I added the conclusion.” He leans forward, hands falling between his knees. Snape is watching him, expression inscrutable as always. Harry is pleased that, after everything, the man still looks just like himself. “There wasn’t much more to say.” He picks at his thumbnail. “Just how it ended.”

Snape nods.

“Riddle, Bellatrix, and Crabbe Jr. are dead. Dolohov, Rowle, and Travers, too. They were killed when the coppers arrived. Everyone else is in custody.” Harry laughs again. “Lucius is already claiming coercion, says he was brainwashed.”

Snape snorts. “He would.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes before Snape asks, “What happens now?”

“My advisor says I’m a shoo-in for approval.”

“He’d be a fool not to. After all, apparently you’ve single-handedly brought down the most nefarious cult of modern times.” He pauses, tilting his head. “And I hear you’ve profiled all the bloody cult members, too.”

Harry smiles. “My dad says our story is a hit. He can’t remember a time when sales were higher.”

“I’ll be expecting a raise, then.”

“You deserve it.” Harry can’t help the wave of guilt that washes over him. After all, it’s his fault Snape is in hospital; it’s his fault Snape was nearly killed.

“Stop,” Snape says, before Harry can say anything else. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re an imbecile.”

“I’m what?”

Snape holds up a hand, stopping his objection. “No. I made the decision to accept your father’s ludicrous assignment. I did not have to agree. I chose to return to Voldemort and, believe me, I knew how dangerous that prospect was.”

Harry is not convinced, but Snape glares, saying, “You cannot blame yourself for the consequences of my choice.”

“I…okay.” They don’t talk for a while after that. The machine at Snape’s bedside beeps softly and, at one point, a pretty young nurse comes in to review his chart and check the bandage on his throat.

The look Snape gives her when she asks about his pain is beyond caustic, and Harry almost feels sorry for her as she scurries from the room. “She’s only trying to help, you know.”

Snape turns his glare on Harry then, and he holds up his hands in apology. It’s amazing how intimidating the man can still look lying in a hospital bed.

“If she truly wanted to help, she’d get that doctor back in here to release me so I could go home.”

“You nearly died, Severus.”

“I know, Mr. Black. As you no doubt recall, I was there.”

Harry frowns. Snape’s petulance is downright childish at times. “You know what I mean. It’s important that you get better.” Harry pauses, biting his lip. “I mean, it’s important _to me_ that you get better.”

Snape looks down, pale fingers tugging at the edge of his blanket. Finally, he looks up again. “Why are you here?”

“Because I want to be here.” As he says it, Harry feels the truth in the words clearly.

Snape shakes his head. “You’re an idiot.” Harry sees the curve of his lips—a hint of a smile.

“Perhaps,” he says, “but at least I’m your idiot. Besides,” he continues before Snape can object, “Dad says there’s already demand for us to turn our story into a long format piece.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. He thinks we might even be able to get a book deal out of it.” Harry grins widely. “So you’d best get used to me. I imagine we’ll be seeing a bit more of each other over the next few months.”

“As startling as it may seem, Mr. Bl—Harry, the past two months have rather inured me to your presence. I find your company quite…tolerable.”

“Wow. Tolerable. Coming from you that might even be a compliment.”

***

_Ultimately, Tom Riddle proved that he truly believed in his own crazed philosophy of superiority. He believed so strongly, in fact, that he convinced himself of his ability to conquer death and thus become superior even to human mortality and nature._

_A surprising number of his Death Eaters remained loyal to the very end, even after it became clear that Riddle meant to sacrifice his own followers to achieve his ends._

_Tom Marvolo Riddle died on 28 July 2004. Between September 1970 and July 2004, the number of deaths attributed to Riddle and his cult of Death Eaters totalled 38 known victims. Five of Riddle’s followers died on 28 July, and twenty-two cult members were arrested. They are all currently awaiting trial._

***

Snape is released three days later.

Harry is waiting for him outside. He leans against the brick wall by the exit, watching the people on the street in front of him. Doctors and nurses dressed in scrubs sip coffee from paper cups and check email on their mobiles before their shifts begin. A black cab speeds by, tyres splashing water up on the kerb. It’s rained on and off all day.

The double glass doors open and Snape appears. A harried-looking nurse follows him. He’s clearly rejected the customary wheelchair for released patients, opting to walk to the exit instead, much to the nurse’s consternation.

Snape’s dressed in dark slacks and a soft, grey jumper, and though Harry knew he had clean clothes, he still has a moment of panic when he thinks he sees bloodstains. (The blood spilled down his neck, coloured his throat, his collar, his shirt a vivid red.) Harry closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before pushing off the wall to join Snape.

The man is too pale, but his skin is not so sallow, so ashen as it was. And while he still doesn’t look quite healthy, he looks…good.

“You didn’t need to be here,” Snape says gruffly, as they head down Old Perth Road and away from Raigmore Hospital.

“No, I didn’t,” Harry agrees. “But I thought, maybe, you’d let me buy you a drink.” Harry shoves his hands in his pockets as they walk. “You know, to celebrate your release.”

Snape brings a hand up to his neck. The bandage is smaller now but still starkly white against his throat. “The doctor says no alcohol—or smoking for that matter—until the stitches come out and the wound has healed.”

“All right,” Harry says. “Tea then.”

Snape frowns. “A little whisky never hurt anyone.”

Harry laughs and takes a chance, reaching a hand out to curl his fingers round Snape’s. The man tenses slightly but then relaxes again. His palm is warm against Harry’s and Harry smiles. It feels right. It feels like coming home. And Harry knows everything is going to turn out just fine. 

-The End-

  



End file.
